The One That Won't Be Made Into An Episode
by Mardy Lass
Summary: Spoilers to 4x10 but NO MORE. Suspicious suicides may be the work of a Winchester. Sam is ready for another foe, but is it too close for Dean's comfort? Could he have an agenda for which Sam isn't ready? Inc. adult situations and if you're lucky, gore!
1. 1: The Part With The Boys In Suits

**_Author's Note:  
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**_Just cos of the whole '__Why doesn't Castiel wear Brooks Brothers' shoes?' e-mail debacle. Don't ask._**

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**ONE:**

**The Part With The Boys In Suits**

**.**

The lights were too dim, causing a shocking contrast that made it hard to see the bright screen properly. The noise from the jukebox could only be termed 'music' if someone had had time to re-write the dictionary using only euphemisms, and the knowledge that he was probably being cased for his laptop right now did nothing for his sense of comfort.

Sam let his eyes shift around the crowded bar-room in annoyance. He frowned at the sight of people dancing, drinking, chatting and propositioning. He looked back at his laptop, his eyes searching the RSS feed out of sheer desire to be intrigued.

Something slapped at his shoulder and Sam started. He realised his concentration had run off, unnoticed, and been happily gambolling in the flower beds all by itself. He called it back in quickly and turned to see the owner of the hand. But they patted at his shoulder and walked round him, sitting opposite on the rickety wooden stool and picking up the pint glass of beer.

"Anything blowing up your skirt?" Dean called over the noise.

"Not a damn thing," Sam admitted. "Do we have to be somewhere so loud?"

"Whut?" Dean teased, putting a hand behind his ear and leaning forward slightly.

Sam scowled at him and then went back to the internet. He noticed Dean's hand go out for the shot glass next to the laptop and pouted as his brother upended it with satisfaction.

"So I take it I'm driving tonight?" he called.

"If you don't want to, just say," Dean shrugged, apparently past caring.

"Right," Sam grunted to himself. "Don't let me get in the way there, Captain Chug-a-lot."

"C'mon, Sammy, it's a _bar_," Dean pointed out, his hands going out and up in appeal. "You want one?"

"I'll pass," Sam admitted. His eyes caught something on the webpage in front of him and he sat up a little straighter in his chair. "Possible vengeful spirit?"

"Shoot," Dean nodded, reaching for another shot glass.

"Two deaths right here in sunny Springfield, Missouri. One was supposed to be a suicide, but then a copy-cat happened forty-eight hours later and police changed their story."

"What are they saying now?" Dean asked, washing the shot down with a mouthful of beer.

"Ah… Hang on…" Sam instructed, tapping at something on the keyboard.

Dean nodded, letting his gaze swing round the room. He noticed the blond head at the table for two, just ten feet away. He was just admiring the way the light shimmered off the waves in the bouncy hair as the head came up.

Her eyes locked straight on his. Dean smiled politely, noticing the tall, wide man sat with his hand on hers on the table. She kept staring at him and Dean blinked at her, uncertain.

"Right, says here… Hah," Sam huffed, his head tilting in accusation. "This looks good."

"Whut does?" Dean asked smartly, looking back at his brother deliberately.

"According to news reports, one man, Mr Ray Spiegal, was found hanged in his apartment. Police thought it was suicide, but could find no way he managed to get up in the noose."

"Did they check for a wet patch on the floor?" Dean shrugged, reaching for the third shot glass on the table.

"Like, did he stand on ice?"

"Well I wasn't asking if he pee'd himself, Sammy," he said, lifting the shot glass and taking the whisky down in one go.

"Yeah, they checked for all kindsa stuff. Case was closed cos they couldn't find a way to explain how he did it. Obviously hanged, though."

"Right." Dean put an elbow on the table, letting his chin fall into his fist. "That it, Columbo?"

"The next one, the copy-cat death, was Mr Daniel Becker, two mornings later - same MO, down to the last detail. Including stuff police didn't make public," Sam stated clearly.

"Uh-huh," Dean nodded, his eyes ranging round the room. He felt a strange urge to look to his right slightly and again encountered the eyes of the blond at the table. She was staring at him, her eyes fairly bulging with the energy she was expending. Dean let his face screw up in confusion, remembered the number of shots he'd had, and chalked it up to drunken paranoia.

"Oh look at this - this could be a starting lead," Sam breathed suddenly.

The noise pounding in his ears, the knowledge that he was being watched by an apparently freaked-out girl, the feel of the crystallising affects of the alcohol all served to make it clear to Dean that he could be losing his grip on the evening. "Whut?" he dared.

"Well, there's a gossip site here, they claim to have juicy information on both incidents," he said, and Dean recognised a certain amount of eagerness in his tone.

"And?"

"And… both times, there was blood near the body, and not the victims'. It appears to have been used to scrawl two letters."

"Two letters? Don't tell me: P.S.," Dean shrugged.

"No." Sam noticed Dean's slightly off-kilter gaze start to wander over his face. "Are you listening?"

"Oh yeah," Dean gushed with an attempt to look interested. "I got chills an' everything. C'mon, what?"

"J.W."

"J.W.? As in… J.W.?" Dean asked, oblivious.

"Yeah. This news report says the local police have identified one suspect, his immediate whereabouts unknown."

"Don't say it's Johnny Weissmuller - I always thought he was the best Tarzan," Dean grinned.

Sam's face, though annoyed, took on a slight plaintive look that Dean caught all too easily. It was a fearful kind of sympathy, a blatantly anguished form of compassion.

"You don't think it's a… well, it _is_ kind of a coincidence…"

"Whut?" Dean managed, lost. Sam huffed in annoyance.

"John Winchester," he said quietly.

Dean stared at him - just stared. "Yeah right - what is he, back by special arrangement? And you really think Dad would be ganking people?" he protested.

Sam heard the indignation and affront. He also heard the alcohol steaming his brother up.

"Alright, I know," he said quickly, putting out placating hands. Dean huffed and picked up the fourth shot glass, downing it without it even hitting the sides. "It was stupid, I know." He paused, shaking his head. "So does this case seem - Dean, concentrate," he urged, finding his older brother's gaze ranging past his shoulder suddenly. "What are you looking at all the time?"

Dean snapped his head back to look at his brother. "I'm good, Sammy. Come on, whut? Seem whut?"

"Look, these two letters have been at both crime scenes, and not in the victim's blood. So my question is, what do the two letters stand for? And whose blood are they written in?"

Dean grabbed the pint glass and found it half full. He eyed it, then looked at Sam. "That's two questions," he sniffed, raising the beer and finishing it without a pause. He set the glass down with a loud _chink_, lifting his hand and waving it at the bar. "Maybe it's code for 'just waiting'," he sniffed, then paused to push his closed fist against his chest, belching very loudly in a way that made Sam eye the ceiling in accusation. "Or 'generous wench'."

"Generous begins with a G," Sam sighed.

"I knew that," Dean blinked, and his gaze tugged at its leash. Dean's hold on it was exceptionally weak and it yanked gleefully. It found itself free and immediately took off across the bar, ranging around the patrons. It stopped dead as it found the blond girl looking at Dean. It realised it needed an owner after all and retreated to the safety of Dean's control.

The blond was still looking at the elder Winchester. It slowly trickled through his slight alcoholic cloud that he was staring at a girl who, along with struggling to remove her hand from the grip of a larger man, was also extremely hot.

And in obvious distress.

"So are we staying here one more night and looking this thing up in the morning?" Sam sighed.

"Yeah, Sammy," he said quickly. "Pit-stop. Back in two." He got up abruptly and stalked off.

Sam huffed and sat back in the chair, shaking his head. Then he turned quickly to call to his brother.

He saw Dean snake through the tables to his right. This confused him, as the washrooms were to the left of the bar. He opened his mouth, then just watched as Dean made definite strides past a table. He put a hand out and grasped the hair of the man sitting at said table. Sam blinked in surprise as Dean rammed his hand down suddenly, slamming the man's head into the wooden surface.

He didn't pause, didn't turn. He simply let go of the man's head and reached out across him, taking the girl's arm. She grabbed up her purse, smiled at him desperately and talked at him with abundant gratitude. He waved it off and helped her up from her chair. As she dashed for the exit, Dean simply walked off, veering to his left to the washroom signs.

Sam, his mouth open, looked down at the man. He was pushing himself up from the table on unsteady feet, blinking around for his lost date. Dean was already barrelling through the washroom doors as Sam closed his mouth, shaking his head in disbelief. He turned back to his laptop, slapping the top down and pulling money from his pocket. He waved it over his head and put it on the table as a barmaid wove through the crowd.

"Thanks," he said quickly, telling her to keep any change and picking up his things. He looked over and saw the man getting his bearings. He turned and checked the washroom doors. Dean was just heading out of them again as the man began talking to people nearby.

As one, they turned and pointed at the elder Winchester, currently making his way back to Sam and their table.

Sam hitched the computer under his arm and watched the man carefully. He began to push through people just as Dean got back to the table.

"Where's ma next round?" he complained.

"Dean - your sauced dude is coming to say hello," he said tightly.

Dean turned just in time to see the hulking form of the slightly drunken man stop in front of him.

"You stealing my date?" he accused thickly.

"Stealin'? I'd call it liberating," Dean shot back. "You don't paw 'em, man."

"She ain't your concern. I love her," he blurted.

"Yeah well, if you love 'em, set 'em free," Dean sniffed dismissively, turning away to look at Sam.

The man growled something and put his hand on Dean's right shoulder. Sam hissed and stepped back one in trepidation. Dean turned with more speed than an inebriated Winchester should have had. His right hand swiped the trespassing hand from his shoulder. At the same time his left ploughed into the man's face with the force of a speeding train.

The man went down like new wonder slimming pills at a diet convention.

Dean stood back one, shaking his hand out to relieve the smarting pain he knew he should have been feeling, and would have if he hadn't had more alcohol than blood in his system. He turned to Sam and nodded.

"Come on then," he shrugged. "We got summin to do about summin."

"Yeah," Sam managed, eyeing the insensate man on the floor. People pointed and laughed, bar staff sighed and groaned, and Sam put a hand on Dean's shoulder, pulling him toward the exit with him.

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* * *

.

Sam looked at himself for a long moment in the bathroom mirror. He shook his razor clean and laid it on the counter, running a hand over his chin and sniffing to himself. He avoided his own gaze and picked up his things, walking out of the bathroom and going to his bed.

He cast a look at his brother and was unsurprised to find him still asleep. He sat on the bed, his hands holding his accoutrements in his lap, watching Dean sleep off his alcohol face-down, one arm dangling over the side of the bed.

"Y'know, I shouldn't have the slightest bit of sympathy for you," he said quietly, shaking his head. "But even when you're finding it hard to walk straight, you're still looking out for the ones that need to be saved, right?"

He sighed and got up, finding his duffle. He went for the television remote and turned on the news channel, keeping the volume low.

"And reports of a sighting have now been confirmed. Is it the suspect we believe the FBI to be chasing? We spoke to the county sheriff, here's what he had to say."

Sam turned at the sound of the TV new reporter, casting a lazy eye at the story as he sorted through his duffle for clothes. He watched the sheriff ignore the camera and keep his eyes on the brunette with the microphone.

"Now I can't speculate on something the FBI only knows, but the brief glimpse the passer-by got would seem to indicate we have the right man," the sheriff said, nodding.

"Is there any truth to the rumour that the suspect was believed to be dead, even by the FBI, until just a week ago?"

"You'd have to ask them, lady," the man said quickly, raising his hands. "All I know is, we have a name and a face, and we're gonna find this man before he can strike again."

The woman nodded her thanks to him and the camera focused back on her.

"So please, look at the face in the picture, and call your local police station if you have reason to suspect this man is hiding out somewhere among us. We need your help, people. He's already killed three times, and we need to help the police catch this evil man."

The live feed of the woman was pushed to one side by a large photograph of a man's face.

Sam dropped his shirt and stumbled over to Dean's bed, his eyes glued to the TV set. He reached out and slapped at his brother's bare shoulder.

"Dean! Dean! Wake up!" he shouted fearfully.

"Get offa me," came the mumble, deep within the pillow.

"It's Dad!" Sam shouted at the TV.

"No it ain't Sam, it's you. You think I don't know--"

"No! On the TV! On the news! It's Dad!" he exploded.

Dean's eyes blinked open and he forced himself round and onto his back, leaning up on one elbow to squint at the TV. The face of John Winchester was still large as life, the photograph staring at him like he was late bringing the car back.

"Gaaah!" he jumped in fright. He put his hand up to rub his eyes quickly, calming himself. "That is _not _what I need to see first thing in the morning." He let his hand drop and again looked at the news report. The woman was talking but he couldn't take it in. "What's she saying, Sammy?"

Sam edged back to his own bed, sitting quickly.

"They think Dad did it. They said three murders. They're after him," he said lamely.

He was surprised to hear Dean laughing, and looked over indignantly.

"Well, good luck," Dean grinned, turning to lie face down again. "Let me know how _that_ turns out."

"Dean, get up," Sam called. "Looks like we're going to be NSA today."

"Awww, seriously?" Dean yawned into his pillow. "I've only been here like twenty minutes."

"It's nine thirty and you've been in that bed since midnight," Sam said snidely. "Now get up. Or do you want the manhunt for John Winchester to go on without you?"

"Hey, I spent enough time man-hunting Dad. Let someone else have a go," he grumped.

Sam let his eyes roll, and a huge huff escaped him. Dean's left eye popped open and swivelled round to look at him. "Whut now?"

"Dean - don't you care they're framing Dad for this?"

"Not really, no," he admitted, staring at him with one eye.

"Really?"

"Really. Cos we know he's dead, God knows where, and probably laughing his ass off at all this," he stated clearly.

"What about the fact that it's Dad?" Sam shot back. "Don't you care that hundreds of people in this backward spit of town think he's a murderer? That they're saying his name like it's a dirty word, now? Doesn't it make you angry?"

Dean's eye blinked and retreated to the safety of the pillow quickly.

"It _does_ make you angry," Sam concluded. "You're just trying to pretend it doesn't."

"I'm trying to get some sleep," Dean groused.

"You've had enough," Sam pointed out, but his tone was gentler this time. "C'mon, man. You drank enough to make it impossible to have nightmares. I know what _that_ feels like. So get your ass out of bed and let's go find the spirit that's _really_ killing people."

Dean studied his pillow. "Don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled, in an attempt to be indignant. But it came out wrong, and Sam heard it.

"Sure, whatever," he agreed readily. "Just get up. You still got your black suit in your duffle?"

"Probably," Dean shrugged, turning his head to look anywhere but Sam's part of the room.

"Good. Get in the shower."

"I'm going," Dean muttered. He dragged himself up and out of bed, keeping his back to his younger brother as he stumbled round the bed and into the bathroom.

Sam watched the door close and sighed, flumping down on his bed and running a hand through his copious hair.

.

* * *

.

He pulled his tie straight as he walked across the short lawn, weaving his way through police officers. He stopped behind the sheriff, checked his partner was behind him, and cleared his throat expectantly. The shorter law enforcement officer turned at the sound and found two men in black suits watching him.

"Can I help you gents?" he asked, looking them up and down.

The taller one with unruly brown hair was closer to him, already pulling out a black fold-over wallet in his right hand, obviously about to flick it. He looked possessed of a burning desire to get to the bottom of something, and the sheriff tried to the stifle the exhausted sigh he felt welling up.

_All these young FBI men are the same,_ he heard himself complain.

His gaze flickered to the other man, slightly shorter and looking a little unsure of himself, as if he were surprised the ground were still under his feet.

"I certainly hope so," the taller man said, lifting his ID wallet. "I'm Agent Riggs, this is Agent McClane, NSA."

"NSA?" the sheriff gasped, rocking back on his heels and putting his thumbs in his belt, nodding. "Well howdy. I've seen FBI in my time, but you two are the first NSA guys I've ever met."

"Well we hope to keep out of your way, sheriff…?"

"Williams," he said, extending a hand. The tall agent shook it firmly, and Sheriff Williams relaxed a little. _Nice firm handshake, square shoulders, seems like a stand-up guy_. "So, what do you need to see? And why's the NSA down here anyhoo?"

"Oh, just routine, really. Tell the truth, we're kinda new at this and we needed a simple case to get us started, y'know?" Agent Riggs smiled.

The sheriff nodded. He cast a glance at the other agent, currently massaging his forehead and concentrating on his shoes. "Agent - ah, McClane, was it? You ok?" he dared.

The man didn't react and Agent Riggs turned and leaned back, nudging him smartly. McClane lifted his head.

"Surviving," he ground out, pasting on a smile and nodding amiably enough. The sheriff looked at him knowingly.

"You new in town then, huh? Just arrived last night? Them bar-rooms too loud for ya?"

"Something like that," McClane allowed, and cleared his throat. "So we need to see the most recent crime scene. My tirelessly dogged partner here says there was another hanging this morning."

"He's right. Follow me." He waved a hand and turned, leading them across the lawn and up to the house, suspiciously empty of law or forensics officers. "Coroner reckons it happened about six a.m." He paused to push open the door to the small, neatly painted hallway. "Mr Frank Abel, one arrest on police record, but just some drunkenness far enough off his lawn to get him picked up. Coupla friends in town, similarly cautioned folk."

They walked in through a tidy, short hallway, the sheriff pausing to shut the door behind them. He watched the two men veer off in different directions, sliding hands over post or small details, heads down and a voraciously curious look on their faces that almost matched.

"Say, ah… hope you fellas don't mind me asking, but… why is the NSA looking in to this?"

"We think the perpetrator could be linked to bigger things," Agent Riggs said ominously. The sheriff blinked at him and then let his head tilt.

"Bigger things?"

"_Bigger - things_," the agent repeated, in a dark voice, and the sheriff nodded wisely.

"Oh, I gotcha - all secret-like, is it?"

"I'm glad we understand each other," Agent Riggs confirmed, and Williams beamed.

"Well, anything you need while you're here, just gimme a shout, boys. I'd be pleased to help with - ah - catching people that threaten our way of life, if you get me."

"Loud and clear," Riggs nodded seriously, and the sheriff grinned. He noticed Agent McClane's slightly pale face had begun to sweat. The shorter agent looked at Williams suddenly.

"Bathroom's upstairs?" he asked, in a very controlled voice.

"Yup," he nodded.

"Good. Need to check for - ah - stuff," McClane said quickly, already heading for the foot of the flight of carpeted stairs.

"We'll let you know if we need anything," Agent Riggs said in a friendly voice, and Williams nodded.

"Sure, sure, you boys'll want to give this place a proper run-down without me in the way," he said. "Just call at the station should you need anything."

"We will," he nodded. "Thanks, Sheriff Williams. You're a credit to your department."

Williams tipped two fingers to his forehead and fairly bounced out of the front door, closing it softly behind him.

Agent Riggs let his shoulders sag and put his hand up, pulling his tie open a few inches. He undid the top shirt button and then turned around, looking for doors.

He found one and walked over, turning the handle and looking in.

He saw yellow '_Do Not Cross_' tape criss-crossed over the aperture and fished a pen-knife from his pocket, hacking the strips out of his way. He walked into the room to find a white, irregular circle in the middle of the carpet. He walked over and crouched down, studying the ridge just inside the circle, recognising the strange pattern left by liquid damage of an indeterminate dark colour.

He looked up, seeing the noose dangling from a mock-wooden beam that ran right through the middle of the room. He twisted slightly, looking at it carefully, then around the room. A table and a few chairs were by the window, tastefully arranged so any occupants could see out of the large patio windows. He looked back down at the carpet, searching it for indents or impressions or furniture that might have been moved or kicked.

Nothing.

He stood slowly, letting his hands fall into his pockets as he took a deep breath, sighing it out. He looked over at the door and the stairs beyond.

"Dean!" he called.

There was no immediate response and he scowled at the carpet, finding it a suitable replacement for his wayward brother for the moment. He walked around the circle, stopping as the came to the letters in the carpet. He pulled the knife from his pocket and crouched down next to the dried red-black shapes, thinking. He stuck the tip of blade into the darkness, twisting it slightly and lifting up a flaked piece.

"Well, it's blood alright," he murmured. "Question is, whose?"

He heard a _clomp-clomp-clomp_ on the stairs and looked over to the door. Dean appeared round the wooden exit, his hand on the edge as if to keep himself up.

"You look like crap," Sam pointed out flatly.

"Well yippee-ki-yay, Agent Riggs," he allowed. He seemed to have at least made an attempt to splash his face and appear presentable, but something about the wan pallor to his skin and the white knuckles gripping the door told Sam all he needed to know about Dean's attempt to pretend he wasn't currently the state of Missouri's hangover champion.

"Anyway," Sam sighed. "We have blood, and we have the initials J.W." He stood slowly, flicking the knife clean and folding it up again, slipping it into his pocket.

"So now what?" Dean asked, swallowing and letting go of the door.

"So now we go see the helpful Sheriff Williams and ask him for his forensics file. He must have had the blood tested already."

"Cool. Is that going to take two of us?" he asked, squinting at his younger brother slightly.

"Actually? No. Go back to the motel. Sleep off the whisky and beer," he sighed.

"It ain't that," Dean grumped, rubbing his head, "it's the tequila."

Sam rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "One day you will explain to me why," he sighed.

"You know why, Sam. Gimme the car keys," he grumped.

"I'll drive you back. You look like a plague victim, Dean."

Dean lifted his head and mouthed '_you look like a plague victim_' to himself, his face a study in sarcasm. Sam reached him and the door, pushing his shoulder to get him out through the exit.

The door swung closed behind them.

And then a man faded slowly into focus. He whisped into sharp relief, tilting his head and listening to the footsteps of the two men leaving the house by the front door.

His dark brown eyes stared at the closed door. His unkempt black hair, peppered with the occasional silver strand, matched his unshaven appearance as his mouth opened.

"Sam? Dean?" he gasped, rushing to the front window and looking out quickly. "_Boys!_"

.

.


	2. 2: The Part With The IceCream

**TWO**

**The Part With The Ice-Cream**

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* * *

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Sam walked into the sheriff's office with a purpose, gliding through the people milling about. He went straight for the counter, putting an elbow out and leaning on it, watching the female officers behind work away in a dizzying display of synchronised filing in such a small space.

It was a good minute before one of them noticed him there. She stopped, blinked at him, and then put down her handful of files.

"Oh, sorry sir. How can I help you?"

"Someone tip over a filing cabinet?" he asked politely, reaching into his suit jacket pocket for his ID. He pulled out and flicked the NSA badge at her jauntily, and she looked back up at his face, surprised.

"Oh - er - no, no sir. Well, kinda. Someone's been through the files here, looking for stuff. Broke into the locked filing cabinets."

"Really?" Sam smiled, affecting confusion. "Why would they do that? Which files were they looking at?"

"Uh - should I be telling you that? Sir?" she asked, in a very small voice.

"It's Riggs. Agent Riggs," he supplied.

The other girl turned and took papers from her hand. "If he's NSA darlin', you tell him what he wants to know," she sighed, carrying on with her tidying and clipping.

The other officer smiled, anguished. "Yeah, sorry," she managed.

"Don't worry about it," Sam smiled. "Actually, I'm here to see Sheriff Williams."

"Oh! Right, well then, please follow me," she said quickly.

She came out from behind the desk and looked at him over her shoulder, heading away and down a clean corridor. They passed a pot plant and she risked another look over her shoulder.

"Are you really NSA?" she asked.

"Are you really a police officer?" he smiled, and she flushed slightly and turned to see where she was going.

They stopped in front of a wooden door with the sheriff's name on it, and she knocked smartly.

"Sheriff? Agent Riggs from the NSA is here, sir."

There was a pause, then: "Ask him to come in, Katie."

She turned and looked at him, gesturing to the door.

"Thank you, Katie," he said politely, and she grinned. He opened the door and walked in, looking around.

"Ah - Agent Riggs," Sheriff Williams said, getting to his feet behind the wooden desk. He waved a hand at the two men in black suits, sitting on the chairs opposite him. "Looks like the NSA works slow these days. Agents Friday and Streebeck, FBI."

Sam ruthlessly cut off the panic threatening to erupt through his limbs. They screamed and struggled to take control, desperate to turn Sam around and hurl him out of the door and down the corridor to safety. Sam refused to let them. Instead he made himself turn and look at the two men with nothing but interest on his face.

The two men stood slowly, leaning over and shaking hands with him easily enough.

"Gentlemen," Sam nodded.

"Agent Riggs," Agent Friday nodded. He was perhaps fifty, a very slight man with almost no dark hair left. "Looks like we're both on the clock."

"Uh - we are?" he asked, leaning to shake hands with Agent Streebeck. He was younger, larger, a shock of light brown hair contrasting with his suit.

"Well, _you're_ after John Winchester, _we're_ after John Winchester - we'll just see who gets to him first," Streebeck replied politely.

"That we will," Sam smiled. _I'd love you to waste your time looking for him. That gives us time to find the real culprit_. He turned to Williams. "And with that in mind, sheriff, I wonder if I could take a look at your file so far."

"Sure," Williams chirped, "although I can't find any more leads in it. Then again, this is what you suits do, right? Oh, no offence," he added quickly.

"None taken," Sam said dismissively, letting his hands slip into his pockets.

Williams bent to his desk and began sorting through files and folders as the two FBI men sat down again. "Agent McClane busy, is he?" he asked conversationally.

"Oh, er… he's a little under the weather," Sam said.

"Nothing too serious, I hope?" Williams asked, still digging.

"I'm sure it's nothing a good sleep won't cure," Sam smiled. "The officer on duty mentioned a break-in?"

"Oh, well, kinda," Williams said quickly. "It's the damnedest thing, really. Someone waited till the middle of the night, waited for the night guy to get a coffee, then attacked the filing cabinets. God knows what they wanted. They did get through a lock though - no idea how they did that."

"Ah-hah," Sam nodded knowingly, looking at the ceiling. He looked back at the two men. "I take it you two have already covered this place top to bottom?"

"Absolutely," Agent Friday said stiffly. "No forensics at all. Whoever went through those files did it without leaving any physical trace whatsoever."

"Ah-hah," Sam nodded again, rocking on his heels.

"Care to share your wisdom?" Streebeck asked suddenly. Sam looked at him.

"Oh, just thinking," Sam allowed.

"Here we are," Williams said, lifting a brown folder. "These gents already have copies of everything, so you go ahead and take this away with you," he said pleasantly.

"That's very organised of you," Sam said appreciatively, reaching out and taking the folder. He began flicking through it.

"Well, strange illegal attempts to read private files aside, we are quite an organised outfit here," Williams said proudly.

"So it would seem," Sam agreed easily. "Well then gentlemen, good luck with your investigation," he said.

Agents Friday and Streebeck got up again, reaching over and shaking hands.

"And you with yours," Friday said cautiously.

"Give my regards to Agent McClane," Williams said, shaking hands with Sam warmly.

"Certainly will," he smiled. He tucked the folder under his arm and walked out. He closed the door behind him and made himself walk slowly down the corridor, refusing to break down into panic and simply run out to the parking lot like his arse was on fire.

Instead he swallowed and counted his steps to the bend in the corridor. He passed by the counter and continued counting his way toward the front doors.

"Agent Riggs," came a voice, and he froze. He turned round to see Katie beckoning to him.

He made himself relax and walked over. "Yes?"

"Ah - just to say - if you need any other files or stuff, then - then you can call this number," she said bravely, thrusting a small piece of paper at him.

He took it and looked down at it, and the phone number scrawled on it in strangely graceful writing.

"And if I called this number, it would come out…?"

"Oh. To this desk. Well, my phone on the desk."

"I see," Sam smiled. He put the paper in his pocket. "Well then."

"Ok," Katie said nervously.

"Ok," he winked, tapping the top of the counter before turning and walking out of the main doors.

She wandered back and sat on the stool slowly, watching him leave.

"Oh dear," said the other officer. Katie turned and looked at her.

"What?"

"Well look at him," the other, older girl said. She folded her arms, staring too. "Tall, devastatingly handsome, big shoes. What a waste," she sighed, turning away again.

"What does that mean?"

"Well he's obviously already married, gay, or a closet serial killer," she grunted, turning back to the pile of files.

.

* * *

.

Sam drove back to the motel, a large grin on his face the whole way. He pulled the Impala up outside, shucking off his black suit jacket and tie before he opened the door and carried them to the motel.

He opened the door and looked in, finding both beds empty and the bathroom door open.

Confused, he shut the door behind him and dumped the keys and his jacket and tie on the wooden chair by the window. He was just looking around the room and thinking about the empty coffee percolator when a hand appeared over the side of the bed.

Sam jumped. Then he relaxed and put his hands on his hips, watching the hand with a silver ring on it grasp at the bedcovers. The arm and rest of the upper body appeared over the top, inevitably, Dean's head followed. His older brother glanced at him, annoyed.

"You fell off the bed?" Sam accused, watching his brother scrub at his face hastily.

"I was looking for the magazine spring," he said irritably, letting his hands drop.

"Right," Sam nodded brightly. "Cos--" He stopped as he spied the two handguns in very tiny pieces on his bed behind the elder Winchester. "Oh."

"Whut?" Dean asked, looking at him. Sam studied his face, then huffed and looked at his feet.

"You almost had me there, man," he admitted. "If you didn't look like you'd gone ten rounds with a whole packet of Sonata pills, I might have believed you."

"I'm looking for a spring!" Dean asserted, ignoring Sam to drop back to his hands and knees between the beds. He shifted about, apparently paying very close attention to the floor. "What did you get from Williams?"

Sam rolled his eyes, watching his brother and then backing away to sit on the chair. "I got his folder. And I met two very nice FBI men, who seem to think we're racing for the prize suspect."

"Whut!" Dean cried, lifting his head over the edge of the bed to look at his brother. "The FBI are here?"

"Of course they are - if there's a manhunt for John Winchester going on, they're not going to be far away."

"You _spoke_ to them?"

"Yup - they think the NSA and FBI are trying to catch Dad before each other. They can believe what they want - I got the file and we can look for the real killer while they go round in circles," he beamed, well pleased with himself.

Dean just stared at him. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. What?"

"Well - they didn't recognise you?"

"Obviously not," Sam shrugged. "Besides, we're supposed to be dead, right?"

"Yeah," Dean allowed. "But… I don't know, I don't trust them FBI. How do you know they're not calling up an' checking on your badge number right now?"

"Cos they didn't see it. And anyway, I don't think I'm going to have to go near Williams again, so it should be harder to find us."

Dean chewed on the side of his lip slowly, looking extremely doubtful.

"What now?" Sam sighed. "Are you gonna get up and stop pretending you dropped something now?"

"Shut up," Dean groused, his head disappearing back beyond the bed.

Sam sighed and sat round, opening the folder. He glanced through it at random, until something caught his eye. He paged back to the beginning and began to read it carefully, lifting out stapled addendum and Post-It notes with extra information on them. He flicked his eyes up as Dean grunted something to himself, still hidden by the bed. He closed the file slowly and sat back, folding his arms. He waited.

Dean eventually cursed something and sat up on his heels, a very angry look of frustration on his features, twisting them into something that really would have put the fear of Winchester into just about any demon.

"We need to go out," Sam said quietly.

Dean looked over at him. "We do?"

"Yeah. We need to check there weren't any other suicides that matched this one before all this started," he said.

"How do you figure?"

"Cos these three cases are just the ones they put together cos there was no way the victim could have reached the noose themselves. What if the spirit doing this has already killed others, but they happened to be near a method of reaching the rope?"

"Good point," Dean said philosophically. Then he looked back at the carpet, huffing loudly through his nose.

"Seriously, dude," Sam smiled, and Dean's eyes swivelled before he turned his head to follow them and look at his younger brother. "Give it up, already. I know there's no spring. You just fell out of bed. It's fine. We've all done it."

"My Colt's screwed unless I can find this spring, Sam. I am not leaving this room without it working," he growled.

"One, I'm not buying it, and two, even if I did, you have a Glock in the trunk of the car!" he pointed out.

Dean got up and stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. "Little bit of trust would be nice," came his heated voice from beyond it.

Sam shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I don't care if you fall out of bed, man." He got up and walked over between the beds, upending his duffle and finding some jeans and a t-shirt. He sat on the bed, pulling his boots off and undoing the buttons on his shirt. He heard the toilet flush and water in the sink, and then the door opened.

Dean walked past him without a word, going to his bed and collecting his boots from where they'd fallen before he'd snoozed for a few hours.

Sam stood up, going to the wooden table to leave his suit shirt over it. But something bit into his foot and he hissed, lifting his foot and hobbling to the chair instead. Dean watched him sit heavily and upend his foot, looking at it.

"Oh," Sam managed, pulling a small but nastily sharp-edged spring from the foot arch of his sock. He lifted it and studied it carefully.

"That would be my magazine spring," Dean said pointedly. He stretched a hand out.

Sam bit his lip, looking at Dean apologetically. "Yeah, I guess it would," he said, anguished. "Sorry."

"Yeah," Dean breathed, and Sam got up and handed it to him. "Let's just get to the library. I assume that's where we're going?"

"Death records," Sam nodded.

.

* * *

.

Sam leaned forward, his head tilted in curiosity at the microfiche reader in front of him.

"So let me get this straight," Dean said quietly from the machine next to him, "you go in there, B-S a coupla FBI suits, jimmy the original file out of a sheriff, get a girl's number and then drive off into the sunset, knowing everyone else is barking up the wrong tree?"

"Yup," Sam said with a certain amount of smugness.

Dean chuckled to himself. "Way to go, you Ethan Hunt you."

"What can I say? I took a course in Devious Dean while you were six feet under," he smiled.

Dean's face fell for a second as he thought about it. He repaired his smile with an effort. "So what have we learned?"

"Hang on…" Sam's eyes scanned the newspaper cutting on the screen in front of him. He grinned suddenly, sitting back and looking at his brother in vindication. Dean shrugged in blatant curiosity, and Sam reached out and tapped the screen. "We've learned that there was only one other death by hanging, but ruled a suicide cos there was nothing funny about it."

"Any initials?"

"No, but get this - the suicide is also the owner of the blood that's marking initials on all the others," he said.

Dean blinked. "And you spotted this but no-one else bothered to look?" he asked incredulously. "How the hell did the local sheriff and the FBI miss that?"

"Probably cos they didn't link G.A. Bosun with Andy Bosun," he hazarded.

"Bosun?" Dean prompted. "Ain't that a little sore thumbish? How come no-one found the name weird enough to remember the previous case?"

"Ahhh… suicide and homicide are different departments?"

"Thin, Sam. Almost anorexic," Dean tutted.

"Well I don't see you coming up with any ideas," he shrugged.

"Fair enough. So are we done here? I'm starving."

Sam looked at him - just looked. Then he sighed and reached for his notebook. "Yeah, we've got everything, I think. We need to dig into G.A. Bosun and find out why he was apparently the first."

"You think he got ganked, then stuck around to do the others?" Dean asked. "And now he's fingering Dad for some crazy reason?"

Sam stood slowly, thinking. "Could be. I guess that makes him our suspect," he nodded.

"Cool. Come on then, food."

.

* * *

.

Sam sat in the car, re-reading his notes and thinking about how it could all fit together. The hours in the library had done nothing to suggest a link between the three victims, nor if the first, G.A. Bosun, had actually been linked other than through mysterious bloody letters.

He pushed back against the passenger seat, stretching his neck back and getting comfortable. He rubbed at tired eyes and looked out across the car park, through the orange and pink rays of the setting sun. He let his hand drop, letting the names and information run through his head at random, hoping something would appear before his eyes.

He suddenly realised he could see the back of a man, where clearly there had been no-one just a moment before. He was just wondering how he could have got to the point thirty feet in front of the car without moving when the man turned round.

He was wearing a brown jacket, the leather worn and creased. His messy black hair worked with his dark brown eyes to give him an edgy look. It was just a glimpse, but Sam thought he recognised the face.

He grabbed at the door handle, bundling out of the door. His trainers scrabbled against the tarmac as he left the door hanging open. He tore off across the parking lot after him as fast as his legs could take him.

The door to the restaurant opened behind him and Dean pushed his way out, carrying two large take-out bags. He whistled to himself as he walked to the Impala. He stopped dead as he saw the door hanging open, the interior light on, and Sam missing.

He looked around quickly, then hurried round to the open door. He pushed the bags into the passenger seat and shut the door, putting his hands to the back of his black jacket and making sure his gun was still in the back of his jeans.

It was but he didn't draw it. He looked around, listening. He looked down and found a large puddle in front of him. Footsteps left it at the opposite side and Dean's eyes followed them across the tarmac.

"_Saaaauuum!_" he called, following the wet prints to the far end of the parking lot.

There was an answering shout and then his younger brother appeared round the slatted boards separating the parked cars from the next lot. He was puffing with exertion, shaking his head at him.

"Whut? Whut's going on?" Dean demanded quickly, looking round him across the next lot. It appeared to be empty.

"I - saw - him," he panted, putting his hands on his knees and getting his breath back.

"Who?"

"Dad," Sam gulped.

Dean turned to him and grabbed his arm, yanking him to stand straight. "No, you _thought_ you saw Dad. What did you actually see?" he snapped.

"Dad! I actually saw Dad!" he protested, freeing his arm with a tug. Dean let him go, then walked round behind him, looking across the empty lot.

"So what, he waved at you and then turned and ran?"

"I saw him stood there - like he was watching something, or the car. Then I ran after him but he was already round these boards," Sam managed. "When I got here the place was empty."

Dean turned and stared at him. "Seriously?"

"Seriously!"

"Sam… c'mon," Dean sighed, wiping his forehead. "It wasn't Dad, it couldn't have been. Now what exactly did you see?"

"Alright," Sam snapped angrily, "I saw a man with Dad's hair and Dad's coat and Dad's '_I'm so unimpressed with you two_' look on his face that, oh, let me see, looked like _Dad's,_" he stressed sarcastically.

Dean snorted in derision, looking round the parking lot, back at the Impala. "So why did he run? Why didn't he stop and say '_hey boys, long time no see, want an ice-cream_?'"

"I don't know!" Sam shouted unexpectedly, and Dean closed his mouth. "Look man… I know it's like…"

"It's like family-sized buckets o' crazy with a side order of nuts, is what it is," Dean observed, but then he threw his arms out in resignation. "But what else is new?"

He shook his head and began to walk back toward the car. Sam hurried to catch him up, and they made it back to the Impala in silence.

Dean squeaked open the driver's door and slid in, taking the warm food from the passenger side and waiting for Sam to get in. He did, taking the bags from Dean without a word as he sank into the seat, a surreptitious bottom lip in his teeth.

Dean started the car and turned her over for a long moment while he thought about something. Then he simply put her into Drive and pulled out of the space. He checked the traffic and joined the quiet stream of cars.

"So… what did this dude look like?" Dean asked suddenly.

Sam looked at him. "What?"

"The guy you thought was Dad. I mean… I'm guessing he was dead?"

"Yeah… He looked… like Dad," Sam shrugged. "At least, how I remember him to look. Kinda… You know how you think you know what someone looks like, and then you see 'em again and you realise you may have been thinking something different?"

"Yeah," Dean allowed, keeping his view on the wheel.

"You seem pretty sure it's not him," Sam pointed out.

"Cos it's not," Dean said firmly. He lifted a hand off the steering wheel to wave it about as he talked. "All I'm saying is, if it was Dad, why didn't he talk to you? Why did he take off like that? I mean, doesn't he want to see what we look like after all his time away?" he reasoned.

"Yeah," Sam breathed. "Weird."

"That don't even begin to cover it," Dean stated flatly.

"Hey, ah… Did you… Well you're sure he's dead and _dead_-dead gone, so…"

"So what, Sam?"

"So… you never saw him? In… ah… in Hell?"

Dean was quiet for a long moment, and Sam cleared his throat, looking down at the bags in his lap nervously. The silence stretched on, until the younger Winchester lifted his head again and looked at Dean.

"I, ah… I shouldn't have asked--"

"He wasn't there," Dean interrupted, but he didn't sound angry.

Sam nodded. "Well at least we can tick off one place he isn't," he offered lamely.

"Super."

They drove on to the motel, Dean gliding the Impala into the space near their door. He didn't look at Sam as he got out of the car, and Sam didn't open his mouth till he was out and handing bags to his older brother to find the motel room key.

"I won't ask again," he said quietly.

"Fine," Dean sniffed dismissively. Sam refused to look at him, instead pushing the door open and walking in.

Dean followed him, one bag in his hand. But Sam had stopped suddenly in his path. By the time he realised, Dean had already walked into his back.

"Whut the--"

"Dean," Sam said lightly, and he poked his head round Sam's mammoth shoulder to see what his sibling could see. He blinked and his mouth fell open at the sight of what was watching them.

"Hey boys," the flickering image of the man said with a large grin. "Long time no see. Want an ice-cream?"

.

.


	3. 3: The Part With The Conversation About ...

**THREE**

**The Part With The Conversation About Angels**

.

* * *

.

Both of them stared, but it was Dean who collected his wits first.

"Well bang me seven ways from Sunday," he breathed, apparently to himself, his eyes bulging. "Could you look _any more_ like Dad?"

"I guess I do," the man, the spirit, shrugged. "Sorry about scaring you before. In the parking lot. I was wondering why John wasn't driving the car."

"N-no, you didn't scare us," Sam managed. "But… that's one of Dad's jackets."

"Yeah, it is," he said, nodding. "He gave it me after--." He managed to stall his grin for a moment, his eyes darting from one brother to another. "You have no idea who I am, do you?"

"Ah… no," Sam said firmly. He swallowed then turned, batting Dean away from his arm irritably. Dean stepped round him hastily, still staring. He lifted a finger, wagging it slowly at the spirit of the dead man as he stared.

"There's somethin'…"

"Yeah?" the man grinned. "I wouldn't expect him to remember, but you might."

"Remember?" Sam asked, confused.

"Sam," the man said slowly, shifting his gaze to the taller son. He walked closer but Sam stood his ground. "My my my, you have got tall."

"Since when?" he asked suspiciously.

"Since… oh, must have been… what, about… '87? '86?" He took a step back, looking him up and down. "You almost look the same. Kinda."

"Thanks," he replied with caution. He opened his mouth again but the man was already looking at Dean.

"And you," he grinned, nodding at him. Dean was still staring, his eyes fixed on the man's face, desperation written on his features as he struggled with something in his head. "You look much the same - same crooked nose, same superhero chin, same tufty hair, same angry eyes--"

"Yeah yeah, I get it," Dean interrupted hotly, but the corner of his eye spotted Sam raising a hand to cover a smile.

"Ok, I apologise," the man said with a fond grin, lifting his hands in surrender. "I get the feeling if we went three rounds these days you really _would_ kick my ass. Although, me bein' dead an' all, that wouldn't really matter any more."

Dean hissed to himself, the tortuous brainwork going on inside clearing upsetting a few gears.

"You're not getting it, are you?" the man sighed. "It has been a long time. And I expect a helluva lot of water has gone under the bridge for both of you two." He straightened his shoulders. "George Andrew Bosun. In the flesh - uh, spirit," he announced.

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. Dean cleared his throat.

"Never heard of you," he rumbled cautiously.

Bosun chuckled. "Nah, don't suppose you have," he grinned, looking at his feet. "You never could say my name right, could you, Dean?" he added, his eyes rolling back up to look at him. "Well, when you were smaller, anyways. I guess the name just stuck as you grew up - or was that just more stubborn?" He chuckled to himself. "Nearest you could come out with was--"

"Boss man!" Dean cried suddenly, snapping his fingers. "Holy shit! You're the boss man?"

"Yeah," he grinned.

Dean's face went from mystified to surprised to elated in the space of a mere second. Sam watched him, surprised, as he strode over to the spirit but then stopped short suddenly, his arms out but realising there was nothing of which to grab hold.

Bosun put his hands out in surrender. "Sorry, kid. I'm not too good at controlling this ghosting thing yet," he teased, "you'd end up on the boards."

"O… k," he allowed slowly, letting his arms drop and taking an embarrassed step back.

"Uh… someone care to tell me who 'the boss man' is?" Sam piped up from behind them with trepidation.

Dean turned quickly. "You were like tiny," he said quickly, still looking immensely pleased. "When Dad needed to dump us somewhere and Bobby had to go with him, we ended up being baby-sat by this guy," he said, chucking a thumb at Bosun. "He was some relation of Dad's - what was it again?" he asked, turning back to him.

"Actually I'm from your paternal granddad's brother's line. I think," he said. "Gave me a headache just thinking about it."

"Not surprised," Sam agreed. "So… you were our baby-sitter?"

"I was for you. You weren't even four, last time I saw you, I think. Dean was older, I guess I was his poker buddy, punching bag, cookie supplier… and generally just his cat to be kicked when your dad needed to be blamed for something," he said easily, smiling at the memory.

Sam looked over at Dean meaningfully, but he glanced at the ceiling before peeling his jacket off slowly. He threw it at his bed, shaking his head.

"Damn, it's been like… a hundred years," he breathed, folding his arms.

Sam put down his bag of food and pulled off his jacket too, wandering back to sit in the wooden chair by the door. "So… why are you here?"

"Well I was kinda looking for John," he said. "But… he ain't driving his Impala. And something tells me you two wouldn't be here chasing after someone you thought was him in a parking lot if _you_ knew where he was." He watched the two boys fidget uncomfortably and shuffle their feet. "Aw no."

"Yeah," Dean managed. He scratched at his head for a moment. "Gone two years, now."

"Aw no," Bosun groaned again, visibly sagging as he wiped a hand over his forehead. "That's just not right."

"Tell me about it," Dean muttered, and Sam looked at his back sharply.

"How'd it happen? What, some creature in the night? A careless Hunt, what?"

"Are you kidding?" Dean began angrily, but Bosun put his hands up quickly.

"I didn't mean he was at fault," he said hastily. "Just… not that he ever did, but if he'd been working with someone, and maybe they--"

"No," Sam interrupted. "No. It was a demon."

Bosun blew out a weary huff, shaking his head for a long moment. "Son of a bitch," he sighed. He looked up suddenly, at Sam. "You got him?"

"We got him," Dean admitted, a little sullen. Bosun looked back at him.

"So I guess you two are who I've come for."

"Meaning?" Sam asked.

"Meaning… I was calling for John. That's why I wrote his initials by the bodies. I knew he'd get wind of it and come calling. And here--. Well, here you two are," he amended quickly.

"I don't know what's weirder - the fact that you're a spirit, or the fact that you're a spirit and asking for our help," Sam sighed.

Dean turned and looked at him, then moved to his bed, sitting heavily. He leaned his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together as he looked at the older man.

"What is it exactly that's going on here?" he demanded.

"It goes something like: I got ganked by a hunter. I didn't feel like leaving with that little mystery, so I hung around, if you'll pardon the pun. I saw this hunter doing it to other hunters, so I called for help. That's you two." He paused, shrugging into his coat suddenly. "And now you, me and Sam are going to stop this guy from killing any more hunters."

"Who is this asshole?" Dean interrupted. "If he's a hunter, why is he after other hunters?"

"Cos he's a little screwed in the head," he admitted slowly.

"You know this dude?"

"You could say that," Bosun said sadly. "He's my son."

.

* * *

.

Sam sighed, listening and digesting as he walked back to the motel room door.

"Ok, thanks Bobby. Just had to make sure this guy was who he said he was. I wouldn't know him from Adam. Yeah. Take it easy."

He pushed the phone in his pocket and brought out his key, opening the door and carrying the two lukewarm coffees in with him. He found his older brother and the spirit chatting as if one of them weren't flickering with the ethereal glow of the afterlife and the other recently resurrected.

"I just can't believe you're actually… well, dead," Dean admitted apologetically. "Just… We haven't seen you for how long, and then you turn up dead?"

"Having a helluva time with it myself," Bosun sighed. He stood a short distance from Dean, his form impressively almost-solid for most of the time. He blurred and faded in and out from time to time, but Dean didn't appear to notice. He was stood up again, his arms folded tightly across his t-shirt as he stared at the ghost like he was seeing him for the first time.

"Sorry," he offered. "I mean, I'm real sorry," he added uncomfortably. It was silent for a long moment. "So… What's happened? I mean, since we saw you last time? And how come your own son gan--, ah, got you where you are now?" he amended quickly.

"It was… well, complicated," Bosun replied. "Me and Julia - we didn't last. She couldn't deal with my hunting, and I couldn't deal with her constant nagging. One day she upped and left, taking my year-old boy with her. Me and your dad were thick as thieves for a good time after that - think we both needed a crutch, more'n anything," he admitted ashamedly. Dean simply watched, with the most marked lack of judgement Sam had ever seen on his face. He wandered over, handing him a cup. He took it automatically.

"So why did you disappear too?" Dean asked the spirit. "One day you just weren't mentioned any more. I asked a few times, I think, but Dad just said we were better off with Bobby."

"Yeah," Bosun admitted quietly, looking at his feet. "I got out of hunting. Swore I'd get out for good, put my life in order, find Jules and my boy. It was going so well - I'd lied to get a job, done well at that one, left and used references to get a better one. It was all looking up. A coupla years later and I was searching for them every day. I hunted for them like I'd never hunted for anything in my life."

"But… you didn't find them?" Sam guessed, pulling the lid off his coffee and sipping at it. He found it cool and tasteless, making a face and pushing the lid back on.

"Nope. I thought she was just good, y'know? Thought maybe she'd learned a heap of tricks from me along the way, even though she'd whined about the whole gig right from the get-go."

"But?" Dean prompted, his face clearly unhappy.

"But… I never found them. I searched all over - really, I did," he asserted, looking up at Dean as if he were the only thing that could grant absolution. Dean nodded slightly, and Bosun looked back at his feet. "It was ten years - ten _years_ after I gave up lookin'," he added.

"And then?" Sam asked.

"And then… just like that, there he was. Standing next to me in the bank, of all places. He's right in front of me, talking to the girl behind the counter, and I hear her call him by his full name - Matthew. Matthew James Bosun. Just like that," he smiled, shaking his head ruefully.

"What did you do?" Sam asked, surprised. He sat in the chair by the door slowly, his elbows on his knees.

"Well, I… I just followed him discreetly afterwards. Found him and Jules were living not far away. Waited till I could face 'em both, then followed him home one night. Went up to that flat and…"

He turned slowly, looking round the room. He looked longingly at a chair.

"Wish I could sit in that," he murmured. "Well, got up to the flat and found Matthew was living by himself. I told him I was a local buildings inspector - brought ID and everything. He let me in and we stood talking. He had pictures of Jules everywhere… _every_where…"

He lifted a hand and wiped his face slowly.

"Look, you can skip to the end," Dean allowed. Bosun let his hand drop and looked at him.

"Yeah," he managed. "Long and the short of it, he had no clue who I was. _No clue_. I told him, he went mad. He blamed me for Julia's death just a few years before - apparently she'd always spoken about me, wished she could trace me. He thought I'd discarded her and never looked back. I couldn't make him see how wrong he was," he added quietly, looking again at his feet.

Dean glanced at Sam, then looked down at his coffee for a moment. He took a deep breath.

"And… then he found you conveniently ready to hang yourself?" he asked warily.

Bosun looked up at him slowly. "Now see, your dad would never have asked me that," he said stiffly, and Dean lifted his hand in surrender. Bosun shook his head. "But then, we had years while you two were learning to walk and talk. Aw, don't listen to me," he sighed sadly.

"So Matthew got you up there?" Sam said gently.

"Yeah. I'd noticed the warning signs in his flat, I should have been prepared," he shrugged. "But I'd been outta the hunting game for so long, I'd forgotten what it meant to have all this stuff around his place."

"What stuff?" Sam asked.

Bosun looked at him. "It was just plain weird, Sam. Like… Well, I don't remember much, but I remember that the kind of stuff he had? Well it wasn't used by people on _our_ side. John would have destroyed it and burnt the place down just to make sure."

"He's working for the other side?" Dean asked speculatively.

"Sure looks that way," Bosun nodded sadly. "Breaks my heart, 'specially since you two went the straight and narrow, despite everything."

Dean almost looked at Sam, then stopped himself, Bosun noticed.

"Look, I know he's my boy and everything, but… he's killing hunters. Real ones. Good ones. And he's doing it using help from the wrong side of the Force, if you catch my drift."

"Oh yeah," Dean grunted, this time eyeing Sam in a way that piqued the watching spirit's curiosity. Sam simply cleared his throat, ignoring his brother.

"So you want us to hunt him down and stop him?" Sam asked, to cover his blatant attempt to be distracted from his brother's gaze.

"Yeah. Whatever it takes," he admitted. "I mean to help you all I can, but… not exactly a fully functioning sidekick these days." He lifted his hands out and wiggled the fingers, smiling helplessly. He noticed his hands were fading more rapidly in and out than before. "Uh-oh. Looks like I need a recharge. If I suddenly disappear, can you just--"

He was gone.

Dean jumped slightly, staring at the empty patch of space where the apparition had once been. Sam got up slowly, putting down his coffee and walking over, pushing his hands in his pockets.

"Woah," he blinked, speechless.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, backing away and sitting on his bed. He moved his hand without even looking at it, setting the cup down on the side table. He let his hands rest on his knees, blinking at the empty room. Then he simply let his mind wander, his gaze unfocused. Sam lifted his head, nodding and going back to his chair.

"Hmm," he offered.

"Yeah," Dean breathed, and Sam looked at him to find his older brother still looked as if Monday had suddenly sneaked up and clobbered Friday over the head, stealing into Saturday's slot without anyone noticing.

It was silent for another few minutes. Eventually Sam stirred, getting up and going to the empty coffee jug on the single hot-plate machine, deciding it better than the nasty insipid dishwater he had just bought.

"All the coffee in the world ain't gonna do it," Dean said, as if trying to remember how to put a sentence together. Sam put the pot down and looked at him expectantly.

"Let me guess - the neon sign at the end of the block that clearly points the way to alcohol?"

"Aw c'mon, Sam - did you _see_ all that?" he demanded plaintively. "You gonna begrudge me one drink while I try an' get ma head round all this?"

Sam sighed. "Don't think I could, no," he admitted. "To be honest, I could do with something a bit stiffer than de-caff."

.

* * *

.

Dean emptied two shots of something that, if it weren't whisky, did a very good job of making itself appear so. Then he picked up the two pint glasses and carried them over to the table in the corner. He plonked them down and moved to sit. He glanced up and caught Sam's disapproving frown. It made him pause and look around them shiftily.

"Whut?" he asked, unsure.

"I saw those shots at the bar, man," Sam sighed. "Can you not go one day without liquid courage?"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. But his older brother simply gave a small, easy smile and sat anyway.

"It ain't courage, Sam, it's whatever works in a crunch."

Sam stared, stunned at the matter-of-fact admission. He decided not to waste the opening.

"Woah, the new Dean Winchester," he joked carefully. "He's got himself new, unbroken skin, a new rapport with beaten-down guard-dogs, and even tells the truth when he's had a few skins of hooch."

"That's me," Dean winked suavely, sitting forward with a bright smile, lifting his pint glass. "How about you, Sammy? Learnt not to bang demonic skanks just cos you're feeling like a kicked puppy yet?"

Sam's mouth fell open and he stared at him. But Dean simply smiled serenely and took a few long pulls of his beer.

"That was--"

"Whut? Below the belt?" Dean smiled with guile that grated on Sam's already raw nerves. "C'mon, man. I'll be Sonny, you be Cher - share a little," he said unctuously. "Was she really good? For a dead chick, I mean? I suppose being possessed would make getting into those positions easier."

"Ok, just what the hell was in those shots?" Sam demanded angrily. Dean put a hand up and out quickly, looking infuriatingly innocent.

"Whut? It wus supposed to be a joke," he said airily.

"Well it wasn't funny."

Dean watched him, waiting for the predictable few shades of guilt to pass over his younger sibling's face. He dumped his beer down loudly and stabbed a finger at him. Sam looked up, shocked.

"You see? You see how all the shit you got up to when I wasn't here pulls the People's Elbow on your conscience, just when you thought you'd kicked its ass?" he demanded hotly. "That's _exactly_ what it feels like, Sam, every damn day. _Every damn time_ someone says the H word. _Every damn time_ you want me to tell you how ashamed I am of what happened when I was stuck down in the Bad Fire!" he hissed angrily. "So don't you friggin' go on about the need to share and 'let it all out' so we can all get over it and move on! All I wanna do I drink enough not to remember for just one night's sleep, Sam, just _one_!" He let his finger drop, but his eyes still bored into his baby brother with burning conviction.

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and Dean huffed through his nose. He reached over and lifted his pint glass, finishing it all in a matter of half a minute. Sam sniffed to himself, then put a hand out. He picked up his glass, taking his time draining it before he placed it back on the table.

Dean cleared his throat, raising an arm and waving in the vague direction of the bar and the girls ensconced behind it. "Have we decided we're not going to talk about it?" he asked harshly.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Never again."

"Groovy," he nodded, as the girl came over. Dean turned to her with his smile on autopilot. "Hey there. We'll have two more beers, please."

"And… and could we get some chasers? Whisky? Say… six, please?" Sam added. "For starters."

Dean looked at him, and Sam shrugged helplessly.

"Well al_right_," Dean smiled appreciatively, nodding to the barmaid. She picked up their empties and turned for the bar. He leaned back in his chair, watching his younger brother. "I… uh… Look, man."

"What now?" Sam asked, appearing dangerously vulnerable as he kept his eyes on the table top.

"That was an asshole thing to do, I know that. But you see my point?"

"Yeah," Sam managed. He sniffed and Dean felt his brother's expression of shame cut through him like a knife. He cleared his throat quickly, pasting on a smile.

"Kick in the ass seeing Bosun again, huh?" he said suddenly, sitting forwards and looking curiously pleased.

Sam snorted. "Dude, I had no idea who he was. I mean, I knew he was the guy in the parking lot, and I knew he wasn't Dad, but… no idea. But you remember him? Like, really?" he asked.

"I do," Dean nodded, looking amused. "Yeah, I do." He snorted with amusement, shaking his head.

"What?" Sam dared, a tiny smile breaking through the battleground of uncertainty and staking a flag in his winning lips.

"Nuthin'. Well, just that… Well. I'm a bit… It's great to see him again, y'know? But… him being dead. Why does everyone we know turn up dead?" he mused sadly.

"Occupational hazard," Sam sighed.

"Hmm." He thought about it for a long moment. "But… good to see someone we know, right?" he offered. "From… from before it all went tits-up."

"You were seven or eight, Dean," Sam observed, sitting back as the girl returned with a tray of alcohol. "Things were already FUBAR."

"No," Dean said clearly, waiting until the girl had retreated again before shooting Sam an annoyed look. "No. It didn't get all FUBAR till Dad died. _That's_ when it all became less about monsters and more about waking up every day wondering why our whole family has been targeted since the get-go. I swear, Sam, the more I find out, the more I _really_ don't want to know any more."

He sat forward and picked up a shot glass. Sam watched him down two of them without even pausing for breath. He sighed, then sat a little straighter.

"But… ok, so things went nuts for a while," he admitted. Dean paused in picking up the last shot glass, pinning him with a look the FBI could have used as an interrogation training course all by itself. Sam lifted his hands quickly. "Look, hear me out. All I'm saying is, yeah, things went real bad - for both of us. You were down there, I was up here, but it was all messed up and we both did things we're not going to discuss again."

"Well _thank God_!" Dean cried with loud conviction. He looked at the glass in his hand, then lifted it and chugged it all down without missing a beat. He slapped the glass back on the table soundly.

"But look - now we got angels on our side, and at least now we're kinda monster hunting again."

"You really think they're 'on our side'?" he gasped. "And monster hunting again? I miss the good old days of torching wendigos and staking zombies, saltin' and burning stationary skeletons, slicing heads off vampires! Where did all that go?" he moaned. "Now all we do is clean up angels and demons' playground fights, in between trying to keep Lucifer locked up! And since when did we believe there even _is_ a Lucifer?" Dean demanded hotly, his hand out with earnestness. "I've never met anyone who's met him - and you know that ain't a joke, Sam."

"Yeah, I know," he sighed. He lifted a shot and it went down far too easily.

"And these angels? Not exactly how they're supposed--"

"They're losing."

"How do you know that?"

"Anna said so," Sam said defensively. Dean's face drained of colour and Sam kicked himself for mentioning her name. But his brother was already pretending nothing untoward had happened to his expression in the last few seconds.

"And you know why that is," he said pointedly.

"Why?" Sam asked quickly, grateful for the distraction himself.

"Cos they're dicks!"

"_No_," Sam said with heat, "it's cos they don't know which of the six-hundred-odd seals Lilith's trying to break next."

"Gimme a list and I'll pick every friggin' one the crazy bitch is after!" Dean protested.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously! All it needs is someone with an idea of how a psycho works!"

"And that would be you? That's why Castiel lifted you out? Cos you could predict where Lilith's going next?"

"Damn right I could!" Dean scoffed. "Demons I get. Angels--." He stopped suddenly, waving protesting hands out in a way that indicated to Sam that the shots were starting to kick in nicely. "Forget it. I am not talking about friggin' angels. I'm not. I'm not. I won't do it." He got up suddenly. "Pee-break. And you're two shots behind," he said shortly, walking off.

Sam smiled to himself as he sat back in the chair, wiping a hand through his hair. He sighed, reaching over and taking another shot glass, emptying it quickly. He hissed as the alcohol burned, glad they would only have to walk half a block back to the motel room.

He picked up his beer to wash some of the spirit out of his mouth, thinking dark thoughts. He was surprised by Dean's sudden reappearance, sitting back down and reaching for his beer.

_Was he quick or was I lost longer than I thought?_

Dean took a pull of his beer and then looked around the bar-room. "You should see the table by the washroom doors," Dean winked, and Sam turned automatically. Then he paused, turning back to him.

"Blond? Brunette?" he asked with a knowing sigh.

"Both."

"Really," Sam said with a snort. Dean's gaze was running past his younger brother's head still, and Sam was suddenly assaulted by a random, crazy thought. But the longer it danced round him, goading him into a fight, poking at jabbing at his weak spots, the more he came to like it. "So… which one do you want?" he asked loudly.

"Seriously?" Dean said eagerly.

"Seriously," Sam nodded. "They both cute?"

"Oh yeah," Dean breathed. "Get your drink, Sammy, let's go introduce ourselves." The boys looked at each other, and it was as if nothing else had been said all night.

It was the moment the audience had been waiting for: the floorshow whisked open its curtains to reveal the most handsome double-act of wicked, toothy smiles the spectators had ever seen. The broad, confident display from the cheeky teeth higher up was breath-taking in its ability to shower the crowd in smiling, wicked delight. Its partner was none too shabby either, the dazzling smile crooked up to one side slightly in a way that shone pure devilish enjoyment over the audience in such an unstoppable cascade of amusement that they gasped and clapped, overcome. They turned to each other and wittered in appreciation, agreeing amongst themselves that the fifty bucks they had paid to get in had been more than worth it. As wicked smiles, they were a complete success, and a long and very showy career was wished on them both by all clapping, whistling patrons.

Sam downed his last shot quickly. He picked up his beer and checked to make sure Dean had a firm grip on his. They turned to make for the girls' table but someone was standing right in the way.

A man. A wide man. A tall man. A man who pushed his chin into Dean's face suddenly, staring.

"Oh look," he said angrily, his eyes blazing with hazel hatred, "it's you."

"Aww _man_," Dean moaned, recognising the man he had floored just last night, "not you again."

"Yeah," he snarled, "and we're gonna try that last round again."

Dean put his free hand up quickly. "Wait! Save the beer, huh, friend? Paid-for alcohol deserves better."

The man didn't answer but just took a slight step back. Dean nodded and turned to his right quickly, handing his glass to Sam. Sam tilted his head in annoyance, his jaw sticking out as he glowered at his brother.

"Relax. Down in two," Dean hissed from the side of his mouth.

He began to turn back. The man threw his fist at his chin. It caught him a glancing blow. It hurled him backwards. He staggered into something that held him up by the arms. He looked over his shoulder but already knew it was Sam. He pulled his arms from his younger brother's grip quickly. Sam let him go and moved back hurriedly.

Dean straightened, angry. His right fist swept into the man's face. He staggered. Dean's left hammered into the unprotected head. The man began to drop. Dean caught at his hair and slammed the head into his raised knee. The man flew over and down to the floorboards.

Dean sniffed, standing back one and shrugging his jacket straight. People around him moved away hastily, but he just turned with a smile and put his hand out for his beer.

"Time to leave?" Sam called, over the sudden noise of whistling, cheering and laughing.

"Not on our own," Dean said wisely, gesturing over Sam's shoulder with a wicked nod.

The younger Winchester turned slightly, feeling a hand on his arm.

"Evening, boys," the slim blond smiled at him. "You guys having fun yet? Or can we join you?"

"Sweetheart," Dean grinned grandly, finishing his beer quickly and turning to hand it to a smirking member of staff near the bar, "the fun starts here."

She giggled, putting a hand out and pulling on the arm of her brunette friend.

Sam grinned.

.

.

* * *

**_Happy holidays everyone!_**

**_.  
_**


	4. 4: The Part With The NotTooGraphic But V...

**FOUR:**

**The Part With The Not-Too-Graphic But Very Adult Situation. Oh, and Darth Vader**

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* * *

.

Sam pulled in a deep breath, stretching long legs and feeling the relaxation from the roots of his bed-hair to his toes.

His toes. That felt strangely cooler than the rest of him. He opened his eyes and took stock of the now-familiar motel room ceiling. He heard a hissing sound and shifted his elbows under him, looking round the room.

He realised his cold toes were poking out from beyond the blankets that were heaped all over him in a way that suggested they had been dropped from a great height. His gaze ranged further afield. He noticed his clothes - all of them, apparently - spread around the room as if a large dog had had access to his duffle and yanked everything out, tossing every article of clothing over the room. Apparently it had then rather happily snatched them all up again and flung them about with wild abandon some time before he had woken up. He noticed the abundance of decidedly female garments also lying in careless arrangements, and lifted a hand. He dragged it back through his hair and then scratched at his head slowly.

He looked over at his brother's bed and found it empty. He breathed out a sigh of relief. Then he heard the bathroom door open.

Out walked a stunningly shapely blond girl, and as Sam stared, the events of the previous night came back to him in a flash.

"Mornin' sweetie," she grinned, holding her towel up and crossing the room to start locating her clothes.

"Morning," Sam agreed. He lifted the blankets, found not a stitch on his person, and dropped them again. A dull throb began in the back of his head, just as a large sergeant major jumped to his feet, wanging a really large bell from side to side to peel it alarmingly loudly, crying '_hangover!_' at the top of his lungs. Sam did his best to ignore him, instead watching her. "Carrie. You leaving?" he realised.

"Well… Yeah. I got stuff to do, and… and let's not pretend this was more than a one-night thing," she said apologetically. "Besides, I have to find Mandy."

"Oh, she'll be ok with my brother," he said dismissively. He suddenly remembered a drunken conversation whereby Dean had taken the room next door. _At least, I think I do._

As if on cue, there came a female shriek and a laugh through the wall behind him, and Sam's eyes rolled like a ten-tonne juggernaut, and just as incapable of stopping on a sixpence. He sat up properly as Carrie picked up her blouse.

"I had a real good time," she grinned. "If you come back through here again, you'll have to look me up."

Sam opened his mouth to answer in the affirmative, but he heard another female cry of amusement, followed by the unmistakable sound of his brother laughing at something.

Carrie looked at the wall directly above Sam's head. She looked at Sam, smiled, and then went looking for her skirt.

Another manly laugh and a girlie giggle, and then a soft, slow knocking began against the wall behind Sam. He cleared his throat and ignored the sound as he pulled the blankets back. He spotted his duffle over on Dean's empty bed and made for it, refusing to acknowledge the knocking as it started to get louder.

He emptied the duffle, feeling the cool morning air all over him as he sorted through for clean shorts. He and Carrie took their time getting dressed as they desperately focused on anything but the noise from the wall.

"So what are you doing in Springfield?" she asked gamely, the persistent knocking increasing in volume.

"On holiday," Sam shrugged.

"Holiday?"

"Yeah. Just relaxing, y'know? We've had a crazy few months and we just needed a break."

The banging got louder as it started to speed up slightly.

"You two must work really hard," she offered, raising her voice.

"Yeah," Sam agreed loudly. He picked up a shirt just as the banging next door stopped abruptly. There was an almighty thump and crash accompanied by both male and female cries of surprise. Then the masculine laughter started, triggering apparently delighted chuckling from the girl's voice. It went on for barely ten seconds before the knocking partnered it again, faster and louder.

"So what do you do?" Sam asked, over the giggling and chuckling from next door.

"Town planning," she smiled stiffly. "Me and Mandy work together."

The breathless giggling accompanying the banging changed into more appreciative noises as they both sped up. Sam concentrated on Carrie's face as she smiled at him.

"Is there a hairdryer?" she asked desperately.

"God I hope so," Sam urged, waving a hand at the bathroom. She walked into the smaller room quickly, putting her hand on the doorknob. "Oh, please," Sam called hurriedly, "leave it open."

She let go, turning to find the hairdryer.

Just as Sam was fingering his t-shirt collar, clearing his throat and trying desperately not to be a party to the sounds of Mandy clearly having the time of her life next door, Carrie flicked on the electrical appliance.

The harsh noise drowned out the final few minutes of the apparently earth-shattering performance behind the wall, and Sam managed to relax enough to start re-packing his duffle. The chorus done, the banging exhausted, all was quiet as Carrie stopped the hairdryer and ran her hands through her hair carefully.

She came out of the bathroom to find Sam pulling his trainers on. He stood, walking to the empty coffee pot on the hot plate.

"Coffee?" he offered. "Your friend might need a few minutes."

"That'd be good," Carrie nodded gratefully. "I'm certainly not going in there till she's showered and ready to go."

Sam smiled easily, going into the bathroom and swilling the jug out.

Carrie leaned on the doorjamb to the bathroom, folding her arms and watching him. He filled the jug halfway before turning and looking at her.

"You have an interesting tattoo," she smiled. "Never seen one quite like it."

"It's an embarrassment," Sam said with a smile. "Me and my brother got drunk one night and woke up with matching ones."

She laughed. "Now _that_ I can believe," she teased.

He walked out past her and went to the coffee machine, opening the top and pouring the water in. He put the pot underneath and then slid out the filter tray. It was quiet, a very relaxed silence, as he finished his preparatory ministrations and pressed the button. She found her shoes and then picked up a biscuit in the plastic wrapper from the tray next to the coffee machine. She sat on Sam's bed, opening up the makeshift breakfast and watching him. He had his arms folded, looking out of the motel window, a far away look on his face.

"Whatcha thinking about?" she asked quietly.

"Oh… My dad," he admitted.

"Is he on holiday too?"

"No. He passed away a couple of years ago."

"Oh Sam, I'm sorry," she said, biting her lip. "I bet he was really cool."

He turned slightly to look at her with a small smile. "What makes you say that?"

"Well… You two wouldn't be you two without him, right?" she asked cheekily.

"You're absolutely right," he allowed cheerfully.

They watched the coffee brew slowly, lost in individual thoughts.

"Should I go get Mandy?" she dared.

"When Dean smells the coffee he'll be right in," he smiled.

"How's he gonna smell coffee from next door?"

"Oh trust me, he's like a shark. He can smell a single coffee granule from over three miles away."

She chuckled and got up, going to the coffee pot that was nearly done. She picked up two cups and went to the bathroom, rinsing them out. She came back and put her hand out to the jug as a quiet _thud-thud-thud_ started up from behind them.

"I don't believe it," she stated flatly, turning to look at the wall. She walked over and lifted her fist to bang on it.

"Wait," Sam said quickly. She stopped and turned, looking at him. "It's coming from there," he added, chucking a thumb in the direction of the bathroom.

"The shower?"

Sam shrugged helplessly. "He always was good at multi-tasking," he offered.

.

* * *

.

"And then he was let out the drunk-tank and he turned up at work looking like Hell - everyone told him to take the week off, but he just said he couldn't rest, that working was all he wanted to do," Carrie said conversationally, draining her coffee cup.

Sam looked up from his laptop. "And this is Frank Abel?" he inquired.

"Yup. I heard from Shirley, who got it from Helen who he worked with," she winked.

The motel room door opened abruptly and Mandy appeared. She looked at them both, managing to wipe a smug smile from her face.

"Hi, sorry. Have you been waiting long?" she asked, having the manners to at least appear contrite.

"Coupla coffee pots," Carrie sighed, eyeing the dregs in her cup. "Poor Sam's been working. I had a nap," she admitted.

"Oh. Ah. Right. Well, I'm good now," she offered. "I'll buy you breakfast."

"Yes, you will," Carrie said pointedly. "We have a lot to discuss."

"Oh, _do_ we," Mandy confirmed with a grin. Sam looked up from his laptop and she cleared her throat.

"Where is he?" he asked wearily.

Mandy gestured to the wall with her head. "Getting dressed," she said quietly.

"Thanks," he said easily, and she felt some guilt slip from her shoulders. Sam looked at Carrie, but she was already getting to her feet and collecting her bag from the bed.

"Take care, Sam. Don't kill him, he's on holiday after all," she winked. "And there are worse ways to spend a morning than having coffee with you."

"No worries," he nodded, getting up. He walked them to the door, smiling and making goodbyes. They both gave him a hug and then swished their way out across the parking lot. The moment they knew they were out of earshot, Carrie pushed her arm through Mandy's, leaning on her and talking urgently.

Mandy started laughing and as Sam leaned on the doorjamb, watching them, the door adjacent to his opened.

He turned to see Dean walk out, yawning and pulling the door shut slowly. He bounced the key in his hand as he turned. He found Sam staring at him, eyebrows raised and a judgemental chin stuck out at him.

"Something wrong?" he asked cautiously.

"No, nothing," Sam accused. "I really _enjoy_ listening to you making girls squeal right behind my head," he added with enough sarcasm to fill the boot of the Impala.

Dean just shrugged, walking over and ducking in the open door past him. "Didn't realise the walls were so thin. Don't tell me you just sat here and listened, you pervert," he teased.

Sam shut the door and studied him. Dean looked around for his duffle before his gaze caught his younger brother's damning eyes. Sam noticed his face paler than usual, and the craggy, dishevelled demeanour that had nothing to do with the clothes or unshaven Winchester underneath. It was something more deep-seated than that, and Sam severely hoped he was not witnessing weariness that afflicted soul as well as bone.

"You _listened_?" Dean smiled cheekily, oblivious of the scrutiny. "If I'd known it was just me pulling a double shift we wouldn't have changed ends at half time."

"Dean," he protested, putting his hands up quickly. "Let's just get back to why we're here, shall we?"

"What are we supposed to be doing, anyhow?" Dean asked innocently. "Gimme something to do and I'll do it."

"Fine. We need to find Matthew Bosun's place and work out just how he's making people levitate into nooses before we find him and he pulls the trick on us."

"Right," Dean nodded decisively. Then he yawned. He sniffed and wiped at his nose casually, looking back at Sam. "Whut?" he asked, noticing his impatient scowl.

"Dude, you look like you haven't sle--. Tell me you at least slept off last night's booze before you went round two - and three - this morning?"

"Are you kidding? Did you see the curves on that girl? She was like an Italian road map," he protested. "Sleeping would have been a waste of everyone's talents."

"Well when you yawn all day I'm gonna have zero sympathy for you," he sighed, shaking his head and turning to the laptop.

"It wasn't my fault," Dean urged, following him to the desk. Sam sat down, focusing on the laptop studiously.

"Oh really? And why is that? Something _made_ you poke her repeatedly? You had no control over it?" he scoffed.

Dean looked at the desk guiltily, but he said nothing. Sam waited, got no response, and turned his head to look at him. Dean jumped slightly, wiping all emotion from his face and straightening. He cleared his throat but Sam blinked at him.

"Is there a problem here?" he asked quietly.

"Whut? No," Dean said quickly. "No, no problem."

"Really?" Sam pressed, but he was more concerned than angry.

"Yeah, really," Dean shrugged defensively. Sam turned his gaze back to the laptop, pressing the spacebar to interrupt the screensaver.

"I'm just tracing addresses," he said quietly. "We can find Matthew's pad first."

"Ok," Dean mumbled. Sam kept his eyes on the screen, knowing Dean was watching from over his shoulder. It was silent as he scrolled through pages of names.

"You know," he said gently, "you were down _there_ a long time. Maybe--"

"Addresses," Dean interrupted, but he wasn't as angry as his brother had expected.

"Ok. All I'm saying is… You considered yourself all shiny and new when you came back. Maybe you're more right than you know."

"That was exactly it, man!" Dean blurted, snapping his fingers in apparent relief. "It was exactly like being eighteen again! It was like playing _Duke Nukem_ with the unlimited ammo cheat on!"

Sam raised his hands quickly. "Stop! Seriously dude, TMI!" he protested. There was an awkward silence and he held his breath for a long moment. Then he turned to look over his shoulder at his big brother. "Although… If I'd been in the same situation, I'd like to think I would have taken every opportunity, too."

"Oh I did that alright," he said wickedly, starting to chuckle as Sam shook his head and turned quickly to look at the laptop.

"Only one Matthew James Bosun in this town," he said gratefully, gesturing to the screen. "Got an address. Ready?"

"Uh-huh," Dean managed through a yawn. Sam sighed and pulled over his notebook, copying down the address.

"Mornin' boys," came a voice from behind them.

Sam jumped in surprise, but Dean simply turned round mid-yawn.

"Boss man," he nodded, matter-of-factly. Then he grinned. "Missed saying that."

"My _God_, Dean!" the spirit gasped.

"Hey, we're friends, just 'Dean' will do," he sniffed, looking back at Bosun.

"What in hell happened to you?" the spirit cried, aghast, as he took in the younger man's face.

"Funny you should put it like that," Dean muttered to himself. Sam turned and looked at Bosun.

"He has a weakness for whisky. And women," he said brightly.

"That's two weakne--" Dean began.

"I've already warned him I'm not making time for him today," Sam continued cheerfully. "You ok?"

"Yeah, er… Just spent too much daylight," Bosun managed, his eyes still running over Dean like he expected him to drop any second. "So, ah… What are you up to? Are you gonna help me?"

"Of course," Sam nodded. "We're just looking up your son's house now. We're going to go down there and get a look at all this 'wrong side of the Force stuff' for ourselves - see how he's doing this to people."

"Oh. Well I'll tell you how he did it to me," he said uncomfortably.

"That would make things easier," Dean nodded.

"He kinda… Well, I don't want to freak you out or anything, but… He kinda has this… he can make people do things," he admitted.

Dean simply folded his arms. "Like Uri Geller do things, or sing-like-Elvis do things?"

"Like… make you slide-up-walls do things," Bosun admitted.

"What, so he just holds a hand out like Diana Ross and you go--"

"I never said he used his hand," Bosun interrupted. "You've seen him do it?"

Dean wet his lower lip slowly, then looked at Sam. "No." He sniffed, then raised eyebrows at his younger brother.

"We've seen it done," Sam said confidently.

"You don't think he's just possessed?" Dean asked Bosun directly. "I mean, I seen more'n a few demonic assholes do that to--"

"No. Well, I don't think so," Bosun replied thoughtfully. "Do you really think he could be possessed?"

Both boys shrugged and Bosun shook his head slowly. He lifted a hand and scrubbed at his hair, his form flickering in and out slightly.

"Look, ah… We were heading over to his place," Sam said quietly. "You want to… you coming with us?"

"I could," he admitted. "Might just make the little shit jump a little for killing me." He paused, thinking about it. "That's weird, right?"

"Oh, if I'd been ganked, and I found the guy that did it, I'd put the frighteners on his ass till he was sweatin' like a hooker at a VD clinic," Dean scoffed.

"Dean!" Bosun snapped angrily, and both Winchesters jumped at the ferocity. The spirit lifted his finger to wag it at him. "Just you take care what tumbles out of that gutter mouth of yours!"

Dean just blinked at him, stunned, and it was silent for a long, edgy moment.

Dean cleared his throat. "Sure, _Dad_," was his indignant retort, but Sam leaned back in his chair slowly, folding his arms and enjoying the discomfort the man had clearly caused his older brother.

Bosun let his hand drop smartly. "I… ah… Forget it," he said quietly, with a sudden, rueful smile. "Guess I don't really have the right to try and rein you in any more."

"Check the collection of fake driver's licenses, pal," Dean said, slightly too cheerfully. "Every one says I'm over twenty-one now."

"Still got that smart mouth though," Bosun shot back with a wide smile. He waved a hand at Sam to make a move. The youngest man got up slowly, turning to the laptop and shutting it down. He went over to his bed to get his jacket, picking it up and shaking it, realising it was empty.

"You got the Impala keys?" he asked as he turned to find Dean.

He looked away from Sam's direction quickly, going to his jacket and shaking it. He lifted it higher and shook it more forcefully to make the keys jangle loudly. Then he simply turned and walked to the door of the motel, letting himself out quietly.

Sam looked at Bosun, who just smiled knowingly. Sam allowed himself a small conspiratorial smile and walked to the door, following in his brother's footsteps.

Bosun looked around the room, shrugged into his pseudo-coat, and whisped out of sight.

.

* * *

.

Dean brought the Impala to a stop outside the block of flats, killing the engine and sitting back in the seat. He and Sam squeaked the doors open and looked around the quiet street slowly, Sam surveying the lack of people, the tall trees, the sleepy demeanour. He heard Dean's boots on his side of the pavement and found him already heading to the path of a house.

"This it?" he called over his shoulder.

"3256," Sam nodded, following. They walked up a narrow, stone tiled path that culminated in a neat wooden door, small flakes of the red paint peeling and hurling themselves at the brown stiff brush mat under their feet.

"Looks normal enough," Dean observed. He put a hand out to the small round bell button. Sam grabbed his sleeve, pulling it off.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm ringing the bell, Sam," he shrugged. Sam pushed his hand down and let go of his sleeve.

"What if he's jumpy? What if he's not pleased to see visitors?" he hissed.

Dean turned slowly, puzzlement and surprise warring for space in his expression. "This guy freakin' you out?"

"What? No," Sam said quickly.

"Well he's freakin' me out," Dean allowed cautiously, but Sam still avoided his gaze. "You're thinking he's… like you?"

Sam spared him a vulnerable glance and Dean's gaze ranged up the door frame and round the peeling surround before he ran a hand through his hair. He let his hand drop and looked back at his younger brother.

"You're thinkin' he can just turn it on and off? You're thinkin' he's doing the same Jedi Mind Tricks as you, but for the other side?" he pressed.

Sam bit his lip but looked at the window beside him.

"Sam, _tell_ me," Dean snapped. "Just say yes or no, for the love of gun oil."

"Alright - yes," Sam hissed at him. He looked at his older sibling, trying to decipher the look on his face. But there was something odd in the eyes, something cryptic in Dean's stare. "What? What are _you_ thinking?"

Dean sniffed, then rubbed a hand over his top lip slowly, looking at his feet.

"What, Dean?"

"Naw, nuthin'," he said, smiling slightly. "Just that… Well, if he is doing this - this - _thing_ - that you do too, then… Well, if he goes all Emperor Palpatine on us, you can just Darth Vader his ass down the nearest electrical chute," he grinned.

Sam let his shoulders drop, unable to stop the smile on his face. Dean put his hand up to the bell again, but Sam snatched his wrist.

"You really think I'm Darth Vader?" he asked slowly.

Dean shook his hand off, then turned to look at him. "No. I think you're Anakin Skywalker. Y'know, seduced by the Dark Side - well, some demon chick possessing a dead girl, anyhow. And then you turn into this master of the Dark Side, sure, but you make up for it all in the end, find your way back to the good side by chucking your evil overlord to certain death," he teased, grinning.

"And you're just watching, poking fun and taking every opportunity to snag the girls or the pool money, peripherally making sure I don't go too Dark Side with your snide comments and fists?" Sam said, deadpan.

"Summin like that," Dean grinned.

"Dude… you know who that makes you, right?"

"If you say Chewie, you are so springing for pie for the next--"

"I was gonna say Han Solo," Sam chuckled, and Dean started to laugh.

"I can live with that. So can I ring the bell now, or are you gonna Mind Trick it open?"

"Let's just… take it slowly," Sam advised, walking off the step and instead going to the window.

"Could you look _any_ more suspicious?" Dean whispered hoarsely, but he turned and went the other direction, peering in through the window. "Looks clear."

"Then you jimmy the door open," Sam called back. Dean grumbled something to himself as he walked back to the door, pulling a few tools from the inside of the jacket.

The door clicked and opened suddenly, and Dean looked up with haste.

"Honestly, you two are the slowest house-breakers I've ever met," Bosun said grumpily, flickering in and out in slightly blue streaks. "Now get in here before he gets back and I use up all my time in daylight again."

"Fair enough," Dean shrugged, pushing the tools back into his inside pocket. "Sammy!" he called, and Bosun wandered back into the house. Dean walked in, looking round the hall. Sam walked in behind him and shut the door quietly.

"So where do we start?" he asked, rubbing his hands together.

.

.


	5. 5: The Part With The Whiff Of The Nasty

**FIVE**

**The Part With The Whiff Of The Nasty**

.

* * *

.

Dean looked around, taking in the peaceful, well-decorated front room and putting his hands in his pockets. He heard Sam walking off as he wandered up to the mantel piece, looking at the photos on the shelf.

"Woah - this is Julia?" he breathed, spotting a photograph of a very young, fresh-faced Bosun with his arm round a spectacularly beautiful young girl.

"Yeah," Bosun replied from across the room. He made his way over, sighing with regret. "Yeah."

"She's… ah… wow," Dean blinked.

He looked at the other photos, finding plenty of smiling babies with proud parents. Still more showed the tiny tot with mother and father bursting with happiness. Then the photos became a young boy with the lone woman. Some were in the park, some were taken in the mirror to get them both in the frame, but every one showed a happy, smiling mother and son. He wandered further down, noticing the photos get larger. These were of the son only, of him coming out of the gates of high school, of him leaning on the wing of a beaten up Ford, of him dressed in his robes at university, grinning as he held his graduation papers. The final photo was a young man who bore more than a slight resemblance to Bosun, his arm around an older woman. She had the same flowing, blond hair, the same smiling eyes, the same air of fun about her.

"She just got better with age," Bosun sighed, peering at the photos too. Dean 'hmm'ed quietly, shaking his head. "And there you have it - the life I never had," Bosun whispered. "All there, laid out in pictures."

"Hey, at least you _have_ pictures," Dean pointed out.

"Dean, I'm dead. I have nothing." His voice came out quiet, firm, depressed.

"But you've seen 'em. You'll remember 'em, even when you think there's nothing left," he said quietly, apparently to himself. "When you've got nothing, absolutely _nothing_ to hang on to, when every damn thing's been stripped and you're thinkin' there's nothing left in all the world that could matter any more, that could remind you of who you are before some asshole twists the knife again - there's the pictures," he mused, just above a whisper as he peered at the photo frames. "There's always the pictures in your head."

"You speaking from experience?" Bosun asked gently.

Dean looked at him quickly, as if surprised he were still there. He straightened, clearing his throat and looking around the room as though he were missing something very important.

"Naw - saw it in a movie once," he said cheerfully, and Bosun started to smile.

"Yeah. Think I saw that one," he teased. "The one about the two boys who lose their dad, and how they carry on?"

"Naw, the one about the guy tied to a chair, going all-" He lifted his hands, shaking them slightly, adopting a deep, booming, overly-elaborate English voice, "'_now the world's going to know you died scratching my balls_'." He chuckled to himself, nodding, as Bosun just shook his head at him.

"Still the immature joker. You never change, do you, Dean?"

"Every time I shower," he protested with a smirk, and Bosun couldn't help but laugh.

"Having fun?" Sam called from the doorway. They looked over.

"Yeah, we're doing a Dean Martin Celebrity Roast - hey, let's do him," Dean grinned, chucking a thumb at Sam over his shoulder.

Bosun laughed. "You got something, Sam?" he managed, trying to present a face more serious than the one he currently had.

"Yeah," he said pointedly. "Seeing as I'm the only one doing any work around here."

"Keep your hair on, Columbo, we're coming," Dean shot back, but Bosun could see no dent whatsoever in the elder Winchester's mood or attitude. He followed, still smiling, as Dean made for Sam and the doorway. "Whut'd you find?"

"A whole new level of weirdness," he allowed, turning and walking to the bottom of the stairs. He walked up, Dean casting Bosun an eyebrow lift before following him to the top landing.

Sam led them to a white painted door, pushing it open slightly. "Not exactly what I'd call demonic equipment," he sighed.

Dean pushed past him and walked in. He took in the almost knee-deep collection of newspapers screwed up and littered around the carpet, the scratches in the wooden legs of the bed and nearly every piece of furniture. He looked at the bed, the sheets torn with strange, short rents. The stuffing from the pillow appeared to be spread around the room in tiny whispy balls, sticking to everything as it flew about, driven by Dean's movement across the room. He put the back of his hand to his nose suddenly, looking up at the others in outrage.

"Can you smell that?" he demanded.

Sam and Bosun looked at each other.

"I have no sense of smell any more," the spirit shrugged helplessly.

Sam just looked back at his brother. "Nope."

"Uuggh, it's like - it's like - _gaah_," he managed, pressing his hand into his nose and mouth much more firmly. Sam stepped in the room, interested, looking around.

"What? What is it like?" he asked quickly, sniffing. "I still can't smell--"

Dean paled visibly. His hand dropped. He took a very hasty step back, his jaw and eyes locked in a terribly obvious show of fear. He turned and barrelled into Sam, shoving him out of the way desperately. He ploughed straight through the jumping, sparking image of Bosun and they heard his boots carrying him very quickly down the landing.

Sam just looked at the ghost, lost, as they heard Dean's footsteps clattering rapidly down the stairs.

"Dean!" Sam called at the landing.

"Uh… What was that?" Bosun asked, hands out in confusion.

They heard the front door slam and he blinked, looking back at Bosun. Then he turned and looked around the room again, walking over to where Dean had been standing. He sniffed the air suspiciously, still finding no scent whatsoever.

"Whatever it was, it wasn't good," he said edgily. He crossed to the window and looked out over the street. He found the roof of the Impala and bent to one side slightly, stooping to check his brother was in the car. He was, and Sam breathed out a sigh of relief. He turned and looked at the room again, then crouched down to inspect the area, trying to see something other than the scrunched up paper.

He searched and searched, crouching and putting a hand out. He rifled through the papers, pushing them around to try and find the carpet. "Bosun, what did you see in here before, that made you think he was consorting with demons?"

"Well - he had crosses and stuff - y'know, like weird, upside down things. He had animal heads and candles, some strange books with symbols on that I'd never even _seen_ before. I just… well, I guess I just assumed they were something to do with demons," he shrugged. "Was I wrong?"

"So where's all the stuff now?" Sam asked. "I mean, if he's been summoning or getting… er, getting help from a demon, why isn't the stuff still here?" He pouted to himself in confusion. "And what's with the newspaper?" he asked himself. "I don't get it."

"Me neither," Bosun sighed. "Honestly, Sam, I'm sorry. I thought there was something demonic going on. I thought he was tapping into some devil's line and getting secrets and occult skills, y'know?"

"Yeah," Sam breathed with an edgy look that made Bosun curious, "I know." He huffed to himself as he looked around, then noticed the spirit fading in and out quickly. "You about to wink out again?" he asked easily.

"Looks that way. Go see what spooked Dean - maybe he saw something we didn't," he said wisely. "He sure looked like he'd just seen the Devil," he added off-hand.

Sam's head snapped round and he stared at the flickering man. He straightened quickly. "Yeah, he did, didn't he?" he managed, shutting a firm lid on his fright. "You go wherever it is you go, and we'll try and figure all this stuff out."

"Deal," Bosun said, almost looking relieved as he gave a small wave. Then he was gone.

Sam sighed, looking around the room one more time. He took a big sniff, thought about it, and then shook his head, walking out of the room and down the landing. He put his hand on the balustrade, looking down the stairs. Then he paused and looked up again at the open door.

Something caught his eye and he stared. He walked back to the door slowly, crouching and pushing it open with his finger. A tiny red blob on the doorjamb made him lean nearer until his nose was almost to the paint. He studied the blob, realised it was blood, and leaned back again. He felt in his pockets for his penknife and a scrap of paper. He opened the knife and scraped at the blob, shovelling it onto the paper. He folded it up carefully, putting them both back in his pocket. Then his eye caught something else.

"Nice," he muttered sarcastically, spying the red trail that disappeared under the newspaper, but appeared to lead behind the door. He leaned forward on his hands and knees, pushing the door open and crawling round it to see behind. He gasped and shut the door quickly.

Wrapped around a ball of suffering newspaper was a spongy length of something that looked suspiciously like intestines. They looked exceptionally clean, amazingly well preserved. Sam crawled nearer and ignored the knee-jerk reaction to heave his coffee all over them. Instead he peered at them intently, wondering why so little blood had soaked into the newspaper underneath them, and how they had come to be so very clean.

He sat back, thinking. Then he shook his head, leaning forward again and tearing off a little piece of the blood-soaked, now dry paper. He shoved it in his pocket and got to his feet, opening the door and walking back out.

He jogged down the stairs quickly, letting himself out of the house and walking down the path. He paused as he spotted the Impala, and his brother's elbow against the inside of the window block, his head leaning again the attached hand.

He bit his lip, the image of unimaginable fear on Dean's face as he had turned and bolted from the room indelibly etched into his memory. _"He sure looked like he'd seen the Devil,"_ came Bosun's voice in his head, and Sam took a deep breath. He sighed it all out slowly, clearing his throat and walking to the car.

He opened the door quietly but could hear that Dean jumped at the sound. He slid into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut, turning slightly to look at his brother.

Dean looked at the glovebox guiltily, eyes half lidded and obviously not about to meet Sam's in the near future.

"You ok, man?" Sam havered.

"Peachy," Dean grumped. "Can we leave now?"

"Yeah," Sam allowed. "We need to go into town though."

"Ok," Dean agreed readily, starting the engine and revving it a few times. He leaned over and switched on the radio, then smacked the back of his hand into Sam's knee. "Get ma tapes."

Sam didn't say a word. He leaned forward and opened the glovebox, taking out a jumble of cassettes and looking at them. Dean's hand came over and snatched one from the pile hastily. Sam opened his mouth but stopped himself from protesting. Instead he put the others back in the glovebox, closing it as Dean ripped the cassette from the box and shoved it into the tape player.

Metallica burst forth and Sam jumped at the volume. He grimaced as Dean turned it up smartly, the cacophony of drums and guitars apparently not even registering with him. Sam put his hands up to his ears, surreptitiously watching his brother check his mirrors and pull the Impala out into the road. He drove on, eyes fixed on the road, jaw clenched, driving as if it were the only thing that mattered.

Sam pressed his palms into his ears, sitting back and just watching the road go by. After a good ten minutes and a particularly loud drum chorus that made him bite his tongue to stop himself from screaming at his brother, Dean's hand wandered over and took it down a few notches.

Sam let his hands drop gratefully.

"I'm not gonna ask," he called over the still high volume.

"Where are we going?" Dean asked professionally, still watching the road.

"Motel. We need to change into NSA again."

"Why?"

"Cos I found some blood, and we need it analysed," he said. "It could be Matthew's. If it's not, it could be someone else he's attacked. Yes?"

"Super."

The car drove on, but Dean turned the music down a little further. Sam cleared his throat, glancing at him from time to time, but Dean's lips were moving soundlessly.

_He's still freaked, is he? Twenty minutes and he's still mouthing Metallica? Musta been something real bad_. He folded his arms slowly, turning it over in his head until they arrived back in the motel parking lot.

Sam waited, but Dean simply killed the engine and got out abruptly, apparently in a hurry to slam the door and get into the motel. Sam moved more slowly, stretching as he climbed out, squeaking the door shut softly. He shrugged into his jacket and then walked around to the motel door, opening it with caution.

He found Dean, as he had suspected, sat on his adopted bed, upending a small bottle of Jack Daniel's. He stopped as he saw the look on Sam's face, screwing the top back on and letting the liquid burn all the way down his throat gratefully.

"So… you gonna finish that and leave me to do the analysing thing? Or you want to put your comfort bottle down and go do some gum-shoeing?" he asked slowly.

Dean tossed the mostly full bottle over his shoulder to land near the pillow. "I'll get my suit." He got up, turning to his bed and the duffle sat on it.

Sam eyed him, then just moved to his duffle and unzipped it slowly.

"Y'know… it would be helpful if I knew what it was you smelt in that room," Sam said quietly. "Might be important to the case."

"Screw the case. It wasn't about the case," Dean snapped curtly, with fire Sam hadn't expected.

"Really. Couldn't be linked in any way?"

"Sam--"

"Considering old man Bosun thinks his son is some kind of devil worshipper? Or at least, talking to demons? You don't think that might be a connection?"

"_Look!_" Dean shouted suddenly, and Sam froze, shocked. "_I said it's not important to the case, so it's not important to the damn case!_" he raged.

He turned and marched into the bathroom, slamming the door so hard Sam feared for the hinges. He put a hand out, shoved the duffle aside, and sat heavily. He heard taps and water, and got up, reaching for the bottle on Dean's bed. He sat back and unscrewed it slowly, considering the sparkling, swilling liquid through the open neck. Then he tipped it up and had a small sip, putting the cap back on.

The water in the bathroom sink stopped, and Sam put the bottle down next to him. He heard a heavy breath and a sniff, and closed his eyes in anguish. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands, swallowing with difficulty.

There was the bang of a boot against wood and the door opened suddenly. Dean was stood in the doorway, his face dripping, sniffing back the drips as he looked for a towel.

Sam realised he had jumped to conclusions and cleared his throat quickly, straightening as he watched his brother pick up the towel and press it to his face.

"It _is_ somehow connected to the case, isn't it?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean put down the towel, then risked a look at his brother. "Kinda," he admitted, much more levelled than he had been.

Sam took in a deep breath, then huffed it all out. "You stay here. I'm going to do my Agent Riggs act and get some answers on this blood. You watch TV."

"I don't wanna watch TV," Dean grumped.

"Then read your _Fortean Times_," he said kindly.

"Might do," Dean said, trying to hold on to his umbrage. Sam smiled slightly, getting to his feet and tipping out the contents of his duffle to find his suit. "You just wanna go and see that chick again - what was her name? On the counter?"

"Katie," Sam admitted. "Whatever."

"Yeah, 'whatever'," Dean nodded agreeably. "How long you going to be?"

"Don't know. Might have to leave the blood with them and come back later," Sam shrugged.

"Well get back here before it goes dark," he advised. "I don't trust that girl. She must have a screw loose somewhere."

"Thanks," Sam smiled, relieved Dean was trying to repair a few bridges at least. Then he paused and turned, his suit jacket in his hands. "Look, man… This thing you smelled? Can you at least tell me what it was? It might help."

Dean looked pensive for a long second, biting at his bottom lip and thinking something over. At last he looked at Sam.

"You know how they say you can recall everything, absolutely everything, if you get the right smell, the right trigger for the memory?" he asked easily.

"Ye-ah," Sam allowed nervously.

"I smelt it. I smelt it, and I couldn't be there any more, Sam, I couldn't," he shrugged with a rueful smile. It made his words seem heavier, sharper.

"What did you smell?" Sam dared.

Dean looked at his hands for a long moment, his tongue running over his upper lip in a way that Sam recognised as an effort to make something come out of his mouth clearly the first time - because he was never going to repeat it.

"The Pit," he shrugged.

Sam nodded slowly. "Ok. So… I'll never ask you again, and we'll pretend it's all fine now. Ok?" he said brightly.

"Ok," Dean chirped with a grateful smile that really did not do as good a job at covering his embarrassment or fear as he thought it did. Sam nodded again, this time relieved.

"Right. Read your magazine."

"Say hi to this Katie chick for me."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

.

* * *

.

Sam glided the Impala back into the parking lot of the motel, bringing her to a grateful stop and cutting the engine. He looked at the passenger seat and his notebook, collecting it and the associated papers in his hand before climbing out and locking her up.

He fished for the motel key in his pocket, stopping at the door and hesitating. He leaned his head nearer to the door, trying to listen, but could hear nothing.

"No TV then," he observed, unlocking the door and pushing it open. He spied the room just as he had left it, plus a bootless Dean fast asleep on his back on the nearest bed.

He closed the door silently, tilting his head as some sound caught his ears. He walked over and found Dean's _Fortean Times_ open on his chest, the still mostly-full bottle of whisky on the floor underneath his outstretched hand, and a peaceful look of long-sought relaxation on his brother's face. He realised the sound he could hear was some horrifically loud, guitar-laden affair, currently being piped through Dean's headphones and directly into his skull. It was loud enough that Sam could almost make out screeched lyrics, even from five feet away.

He shook his head, stooping to pick up the bottle. He was pleasantly surprised it was still so full as he turned and put it on the side table. He leaned over and pulled the headphones free of his brother's ears, being careful not to disturb him. He pulled them up and located the phone hanging off them, gratefully sliding his fingers over the controls and putting a stop to AC/DC's carefully orchestrated symphony of drum and guitar worship.

He put his hands on his hips, watching his brother sleep peacefully for the first time in a long time. Then he sighed, turning away and going to the table under the window. He pulled over his notebook and the papers jammed into it, sat down, and began to read it again, concentrating more on the why than the facts.

After two pots of coffee and the need to turn the lights on due to failing daylight, Sam leaned back in his chair and stretched, yawning as he rubbed the kinks out of his neck. He got up to go back to the coffee machine, noticing Dean had rolled onto his left side comfortably. He appeared very much asleep still, and Sam let himself smile, relieved he looked to be enjoying a little bit of peace.

He thought about more coffee and the cup in his hand, then decided he'd had enough of waiting around. He put the cup down and went to the table, picking up his motel key and the Impala keys. He paused, looking back at Dean. He thought for a moment, then crossed the room again. He pulled a piece of paper from the hotel pad by the phone between the beds and took up the pen, scribbling a quick note as to his whereabouts thereon. He left it standing up against Dean's mobile phone and then nodded to himself. He turned to leave but then hesitated.

He looked back at his brother and something made him sit back down on his own bed slowly. An image, old but much-pondered, opened the tiny side-window in Sam's memory and sneaked in. It rolled over the carpet, gliding silently across his brain and jumping up for his attention. He tried to ignore it and just look across to the other bed at his brother's face.

His brother's face. Normal, peaceful, rested. Not so beaten, not so marked, without blood, or scratches, or cuts. Without welts or contusions. Just a slight amount of bruising from rescuing damsels in distress.

The memory chose this moment to leap into Sam's line of sight and cloud his vision. And then he saw it - his brother's face. The memory, and the here-and-now.

Images of past and present overlapped in his head, and he knew exactly why he'd been driven to sit and look at his brother. His face looked the same - the peaceful, relaxed expression on the vacant window, the stillness. It was all there, exactly as it had been that one hateful day.

Everything except the pine coffin.

"It was a cool day. Not very windy. Sun was shining, just for a change," he managed. "I was standing with Bobby, saying how you'd find it funny, how--." He paused, swallowing. "But you weren't there. You weren't there. Cos we…"

He looked around the room slowly, trying to banish the images in his head. But they wouldn't leave. He looked back at his brother.

"Cos me and Bobby? We'd just lifted you into this big pine box, man. You were heavy," he smiled, but he felt water in his eyes. "That's when it became real. That's when I finally realised you were actually dead." He sniffed. "I kept thinking - it's a prank. This is another prank. He'll wait till I'm sobbing and wailing like a girl, and then he'll jump up and shout '_fooled you!_'. But… I waited. I mean, I really, actually waited. But you didn't move. You didn't get up."

He pinched at his nose sharply, concentrating.

"He wanted to salt and burn you. He was really… He said it's what you'd want." He swallowed. "I wouldn't do it. I wouldn't listen," he added with a rueful smile. "I made him help me, we put you in that coffin and put you in the ground. I knew it was wrong, I knew I shoulda been listening to Bobby." He paused. "But what choice did I have? And I'd been wrong before, so what did I care? Anyhow," he added firmly, "seems like I did the right thing after all, huh?"

He got up, kicking the stubborn memory out of his head. He leaned over and picked up the magazine that had fallen to the bed. He put it on the side table, then leaned over his brother and grasped at the blanket. He pulled it across Dean, laying it over him and standing back.

"I'm gonna… I'm just gonna check on something. You ah…" he whispered with a small sniff. "You get some rest. You've really needed it recently."

He turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Dean's left hand snaked up and across him from under the blanket, finding the top edge and pulling it round him more tightly. His right eye opened and looked at the motel door.

It closed again. He went back to sleep.

.

.


	6. 6: The Part With Metallica

**SIX**

**The Part With Metallica**

.

* * *

.

"Hi," Sam said confidently, pulling his fold-over wallet from his inside suit jacket pocket, "I'm Agent Riggs with the NSA. I need to see one of your patients' records, please?"

The older nurse on the counter just looked at him. She sighed, ran a hand over her forehead slowly, and nodded.

"Who is it?" she asked wearily.

Sam's eyebrows twitched in pity and he leaned on the counter. "Ah… Matthew Bosun," he said easily. "You ah… been here a while?"

"Fifteen hours today," she said pointedly, bending to the computer in front of her and tapping at keys.

"Ah-hah," Sam nodded. He looked around, then back at her. "I know how that feels. You got coffee back there?"

"Nope," she heaved. "Machine's too far from the phone, if you catch my drift."

"Would you _like_ a coffee back there?"

She raised her eyes to his slowly and blinked. "Yes I would, Agent Riggs. Who do I have to kill to get one?"

Sam grinned. "You just need to let me have a very quick look at Matthew Bosun's hard file. I'll be right back," he winked.

She watched him turn and walk off, feeling in his deep suit pocket for change. She blinked to herself in surprise, then just smiled and turned to the filing cabinets behind her.

.

* * *

.

Sam pulled up at the motel, looking at his watch to confirm he had just spent two hours chatting amiably with a woman twice his age, just to get the gossip on one Matthew Bosun. He had to admit, it had actually been as much as fun as it had been educational.

He let this revelation bounce around his brain, wondering if he dare share it with his brother, as he carried his notebook and the recently donated file from the car. He opened the motel room door and dropped the keys to the table.

"So guess what," he called to the room, closing the door.

He looked up and found the room empty. He frowned, walking to the bathroom and knocking on the door. No answer. He opened it and checked it was empty before turning and looking round the room. Dean's duffle was still on his bed, zipped up and giving off a decidedly bored air. Sam walked over and then spied the piece of paper that he had left on Dean's phone.

He picked it up and saw Dean had added something to his earlier scrawl.

'_Appreciate the whole pine box thing. You know where to find me_.'

He gaped at the paper before letting his hand drop quickly and closing his shocked mouth. He screwed up the note and binned it, going back to the table and picking up the motel key. He opened the door and let himself out, automatically turning to his right and seeing the neons advertising the bar at the end.

.

* * *

.

Sam pushed through the bar room door and looked around. The lively patrons were again drinking, dancing, picking up and tossing back left, right and centre. He huffed slightly and pushed his way to the bar, looking at everyone carefully.

The barmaid came to the counter, eyeing him appreciatively.

"And what can I get for you?" she winked. He spared her a glance before putting his hands on the wood and searching the people's faces again.

"Uh - have you seen a guy, about this tall," he said, lifting his hand, "kinda heavy-set, hair that doesn't know whether to be blond or mousy?"

"You mean Dean? He's at the dartboard," she grinned, chucking a thumb over her shoulder. "And he's four for four with me, I'm quite impressed."

"Ri-ight," Sam allowed worriedly.

"Take a seat, darlin'," she added, whipping out an empty shot glass. "You gonna play too?"

"Ah - not just yet," he said quickly, holding his hand over the glass. "Maybe later."

"Suit yourself," she shrugged genially, turning to another customer, currently waving a bill at her impatiently.

Sam slid onto the bar stool and waited. A few minutes later Dean approached the bar. He noticed Sam still in his black suit and cupped his hands round his mouth.

"Hey! It's the fuzz!" he shouted, and half the bar turned and stared, drinks poised, ready to be drunk or thrown, depending on the amount of truth to the ugly accusation.

Sam turned and pinned his brother with a look that could have been borrowed by a member of the fire department faced with an obstreperous door. Dean chuckled, waving his hands in the air to the crowd.

"It's ok, he's with me!"

There was a collective heave of relief and the drinking continued as Dean propped himself on the stool next to him.

"So? Done investigating, sir?" he asked charmingly.

"Actually? Yeah. Seeing as I'm the only one worried about this case," he snapped.

"Meaning?" Dean protested, putting his hand out for the shot glass on the counter. He looked up at the barmaid, winked, and downed it in one. It took him a long second to get over the acidic burn, by which time he had slammed the glass back down, wagging a finger at her. "Sambuca," he rasped, "red," then coughed slightly.

"Damn! That's five for five!" she chuckled. "Let me think about the next one."

Sam just watched him, a patent layer of annoyance covering his face like rough wallpaper on an expensively finished paint-job. "I got the results of the blood work back," he said loudly.

Dean nodded, waving a hand in a circle for him to continue. A group of girls appeared behind him, but Dean didn't even notice, such was his attention on the counter and barmaid mixing drinks behind it.

"And the blood in the bedroom, all over the newspapers? It was Matthew Bosun's," he added.

Dean turned and leaned an elbow on the bar, watching his brother. "Uh-huh. So what, he's been ganked too?"

"I don't think so - there wasn't enough of it. I found some entrails in the room - they belonged to a local guy. He was reported missing a week ago, never found the body."

"Nice," Dean smiled brightly.

"Yeah - clean as a whistle, too. No blood, no gore, nothing," Sam added, watching Dean look over and consider the newest shot glass on the table. "No plasma, no pus, none of that gooey, reddish-green stuff you get--"

"I got it," Dean said quickly, sniffing and looking away from the dark green drink. "So what are you thinking? He snatched this dude, had trouble cutting him up, used his insides for summoning ingredients? Or he's taking trophies now?"

"Who knows?" Sam shrugged wearily. "But--"

Dean jumped on his stool abruptly, and Sam straightened, noticing the look of shock on his brother's face. But then Dean turned right round and leaned on the counter to look at the group of females behind him.

"Alright, which one of you's pinching the merchandise?" he accused.

The group broke out into laughter and then a very familiar-looking brunette leaned through them, grinning at him.

"Mandy! Oh, _you_ can do it again," he chuckled.

"Dean - good to have you back in here," she smiled.

"Good to be had," he agreed. He heard a groan from behind him and lifted a thumb over his shoulder. "Mandy, you remember Sam, my brother?"

"Do I," she winked at Sam. "If I'd known you were going to be here, I'd have called Carrie."

Sam smiled politely. "Yeah, great, wonderful," he said quickly. "Dean, this is important and I don't think--."

Dean jumped again slightly as Mandy giggled, raising her hand from behind him and pushing herself under his arm, leaning on him.

"I think something else very important has just come up, too," Dean nodded.

A crowd of gamblers hastily gathered round Sam's eyes, sensing a spin about to occur. They were not disappointed, as the tall Winchester's eyes, much like a roulette ball, were cast. They skittered and skipped over the numbers as the wheel hurled itself round almost as fast. There was much more chance of Sam's eyes coming up black than red, though. Gamblers clutched at each other and shrieked in pure nervous excitement.

Sam's eyes leapt over the roulette wheel, finished their impossibly fast roll, and came to a stop. On black. "Look, I think we will need to do some staking-out tonight," he said clearly.

"Awww, seriously?" Dean whined, tutting to himself as his face screwed up in injustice.

"Seriously," Sam nodded. He pouted at his brother speculatively. "How much have you had?"

"Not many," Dean protested. "Speaking of which, I'll be right back." He slid off his stool and pushed through the crowd toward the washrooms. Sam sighed, eyeing the ceiling with impatience. He looked down again to find Mandy inspecting his tie.

"You're not really on holiday, are you?" she asked quietly.

"No, we're not," Sam admitted.

"Uh-huh. Damn. So you two have to work tonight?"

"Yeah. Sorry," he shrugged.

"That's ok. Not your fault."

"I'll be sure and put that in my report," he said politely.

They stood by the bar in silence until she turned to him resolutely. "Look… I have to ask - why are you so against him having a good time? I mean, it's late, and yeah I know you've got to work, but--"

"Cos he sinks more alcohol than water," he interrupted. He huffed loudly. "Sorry. It's just… he's not what you think, Mandy. He's got serious problems and--"

"Doesn't everyone?" she reasoned. "Maybe he's dealing with stuff by himself, in the only way he knows how. Maybe he just takes fun where he finds it, cos he's not sure when he'll find it again. That's all," she added, biting her lip on the last words.

Sam stared at her, then shook his head, looking at his shoes. "Fair enough," he managed.

"Ok then, let's make like shepherds," Dean said as he pushed back through the crowd.

"Make like shepherds?" Sam prompted.

Mandy thought for a moment. Then she gasped and opened her mouth: "And get the--"

"--flock out of here," Dean finished with her. She looked at him and laughed, and Sam couldn't help but smile.

"Let's go," he nodded.

Mandy pulled on Dean's lapel. "Don't work too hard." She kissed him as if her life depended on it.

Sam cleared his throat and looked around the bar, noticing a man watching them. A tall man. A wide man. A man with a face that suggested he was chewing a wasp. A man making his way over with angry strides.

"Dean," Sam havered. His brother managed to grunt something, but his attention was on other matters. "Dean," Sam said again, more loudly, as the man came within range and Sam recognised him.

"Hey," the man growled, putting his hand out and grasping at Mandy's shoulder. She yelped as she was pulled backwards. Sam put his hands out and grabbed her elbow before she could fall.

"Whut the--. Hey pal, get your own," Dean snapped. Then recognition of the face set in and he groaned, his head lolling back on his neck for a second before he swung it back round to look at him. "You again? Seriously, dude, you need to find some other--"

The man swung a fist. It landed square against Dean's cheekbone. He was thrown backwards onto a table near the bar. Empty shot glasses went up and the Winchester went down. The table underneath him tipped and sent them both into the floor.

Sam pulled Mandy clear, watching the people spread out and eye the two men eagerly. Money started to change hands as Dean got to his feet laboriously.

"Right. Now I've been kind, man. All I did was save that poor girl from you manhandlin' her. You had a go then, and you lost. Then, cos obviously you have nothing else to do with your evenings, you have another go the next night. Now I'm a reasonable man," he called grandly, dusting off his elbow as he stepped clear of the table and chairs scattered around him. "I understand you're hurt cos some guy smaller than you wiped the floor with you - twice. But I ain't going to be reasonable much longer. Get your stuff and take a walk," he said firmly, pointing a dangerous finger at him.

The man laughed, shaking his head. "You were lucky, both times. I was blind drunk. This time I'm sober, and you're the one who's had too much to drink."

"We'll just see about that," Dean growled.

"Fifty bucks says you take him!" a girl's voice shouted.

"Done!" Dean replied, advancing on the man.

He stepped back warily, watching Dean. But he didn't pause. He simply strode right up to him and twisted his right fist back. The man leaned to block it. Dean's right fist didn't move. His left came smashing down across his head.

The man was pushed to the floor on his knees and the crowd whooped. Sam sighed and eyed the ceiling as Mandy began shouting encouragement, for what it was worth.

The man put a foot under him to get up. Dean grabbed his shirt and helped him. Before yanking and cracking his head into his with a terrific slap that echoed round the bar.

The crowd "_ooooh!_"d in sympathy as the man fell to the floor. But he got up again quickly, whirling on Dean and slamming a fist into his face. Dean moved with it but the force pushed him off his feet. He was already rolling to get up as the man leaned down and grabbed at his shirt. Dean's hand shot up into the man's solar plexus. He gasped and staggered. Dean punched soundly. The man flew over backwards.

Dean got up, sniffing a runny nose and pulling his shirt straight, to the calls and cheers of the crowd. He waited until the man was on his feet again. He approached warily and they looked at each other.

The man lunged forward. Dean caught a smack to the face but blocked the second fist. He hammered back with one, two, three blows that pushed the man back and across a table. It tilted right and he rolled to the floor.

Dean stood back, nodding, as money started to move and bets were called in. But the man groaned and pushed himself to his feet with what seemed to be an Herculean effort.

"Dude! Seriously!" Dean warned.

But he simply turned himself around and aimed at the Winchester again. Dean shrugged to himself and waited for the man's lazy punch. It came and he turned it easily to one side. He drove one blow into the man's gut and two to his head in quick succession.

The man slammed down and stayed there. The crowd waited, breath bated, but the man didn't so much as groan.

Dean straightened his back and hissed slightly, before pulling himself in order and turning to look at the bar.

"Are we done?" he asked innocently, and everyone cheered and started collecting money. He looked back over at Sam and Mandy. "Looks like we can go now," he said cheerfully.

"Let me know if you get a day off," Mandy winked, disappearing into the crowd.

Sam walked over, looked at Dean, and shook his head.

"Whut?" Dean asked, his hands out in innocence. He watched his brother walk off through the patrons, and simply followed.

.

* * *

.

Dean leaned back in the passenger seat, still irked by Sam's insistence that he drive due to Dean's turn at the 'guess the shot' game. He folded his arms warmly and shifted slightly to be more comfortable.

"Why are we here again?" he asked his brother.

Sam reached for the flask of coffee behind the steering wheel, sitting on the top of the dashboard. He unscrewed the top slowly as he watched the house like a hawk.

"Cos Matthew Bosun hasn't been seen at work in two weeks," he said conversationally.

"We making sure he ain't defrauding his boss through sick pay?"

"He works at a bookshop. And no, we're here cos despite the fact that no-one's seen him at all in the last fortnight, he's still managed to collect his mail, get his milk and shout at neighbours' dogs to get them off his lawn."

"What, so now he's invisible?" Dean scoffed.

"You never know," Sam shrugged. He froze suddenly. "Dude. Upstairs window."

Dean looked up at the house and saw the now bright yellow light on, behind the thin curtains. A figure moved around in front of the light, casting odd shadows on the curtains, just far enough away to distort the actual shape.

"So he's home," Dean blinked. "And… chowing down on some other waif or stray?" he hazarded, as they saw him bob up and down out of sight repeatedly. "Or… Aw no, I don't want to know what he's doing in there."

"Dean - bleach on the brain, please," Sam frowned, pre-occupied. "Looks like…" The bobbing got faster and faster, and then a hand pressed against the curtain to the glass.

"Ok," Dean said quickly, looking away and out through his side window, "there's just all kindsa skin-fluting going on and I really don't wanna have to sit here and wa--"

"You think?" Sam gasped.

Dean looked back just in time to see the shadow grow sideways quickly, almost blocking the entire window. Then the light winked out.

"Whut the hell was that?" he breathed, leaning forward. "Did he just grow big-ass wings?"

"Looks like," Sam offered. They continued to look out of the windscreen, confused. Then their heads turned in precision synchronisation and they shared a look of complete bafflement.

Sam dropped the flask and grasped the handle of the door. He let himself out quickly, drawing his Taurus handgun from the back of his jeans. Dean slid out of the driver's door and they stole across the silent street, hurrying up the path and round the side of the house.

They edged down the side of the brickwork until they came to the back door. Sam raised his gun and waited while Dean pocketed his. He pulled out tools and worked on the door lock. It clicked open and he shoved his tools away before hefting his Colt in his hand and reaching out with his left, pulling down on the long handle.

The door opened. Dean poked his head in before creeping into the kitchen. He heard Sam shuffle in and push the door nearly closed carefully. He turned on his younger brother and waved his gun at the far door that led to the stairs.

Sam nodded quickly and they pushed through the door. They shifted down the hallway and to the base of the stairs. Dean looked at Sam quickly before putting his foot on the stairs and starting up. He tried to spread his weight, hoping nothing would squeak underneath him.

They were halfway up, Dean watching the top landing carefully. Sam was just a few steps behind, his gun ready and his eyes torn between watching upwards in the direction of the landing, and down behind them.

Dean put his foot on the top step. There was a creak of wood and they froze. But it hadn't come from the staircase.

The white painted door started to swing open. Dean shot up the last step. He threw his back against the wall, his gun arm ready. Sam ducked down on the stairs. He levelled the barrel of his gun at the door from an angle through the landing balustrade.

Sam did not quite understand what happened next.

He heard a horrified intake of breath from his brother. He still couldn't see anything. The door flung itself open. There was a streak of red and black, the push of wind against his face and chest.

He felt something crash into the back of his head. Then his knees. Then his ribs, his shoulder, his head again, his shins. The world shook upside down and round again. He opened his eyes to find himself looking up at the ceiling,

There was an almighty crash of glass. Sam tried to twist to see. Everything hurt. He gave up twisting and instead concentrated on what he _could_ see.

He was lying at the bottom of the stairs, he could recognise them now. His right elbow was stuck underneath him awkwardly and he hissed in pain, dragging his feet down the last few stairs and squirming round to get upright.

He sat up, looking around. The kitchen door had splintered and disintegrated, the windows beyond in the room smashed by something large. He panted some breath back, felt his head with his left hand and saw the small amount of blood on it. Then he looked up to the top landing quickly.

"Dean!" he called. There was no answer and he scrambled to his feet, grabbing at the balustrade to pull himself up the stairs. "Dean!"

He reached the top and paused.

Dean was on one knee, pressing his side against the wall at the top of the stairs. His head was tucked well inside his raised knee, his arms over and round his head and neck desperately. His gun was lying on the carpet, uncared for, and Sam let his face screw up in patent confusion. But he was feeling the affects of fright, tumbling down the stairs and relief all at once, and it was all he could do to sit on the stair under him slowly, feeling his ribs.

"Dude," he managed, running a hand through his hair.

There was the tiniest gasp of a whimper, and Sam slid his eyes over to his brother. It was then that he noticed his arms were visibly shaking, the jacket at his sides fluttering madly as his now audible, laboured breathing caught his younger brother's ears.

"Dean!" Sam snapped, grasping at the stair and balustrade to haul himself up. He pushed himself to the top step, reaching a hand out against Dean's shoulder.

Dean flinched and there was a terrible, anguished noise of pain or fear. Sam drew his hand back quickly, alarmed. He looked down the stairs to the thing that had fled just a minute before. Then he looked back at his brother hastily.

"It's gone," he managed. He put his hand out again, laying it gently on his shoulder. "Come on, man. It's gone."

"You get away from me! All of you!" Dean whimpered, trying to push himself closer to the wall, as if such a thing were possible. Sam let go, his heart nearly stopping at the sounds of gibbering fear from his sibling.

"Dean," he said clearly. "Dean, it's me. It's Sam. It's just Sam. I'm the only one here." He paused, but Dean didn't move. "It's me - it's Sam. You can hear my voice, right? You know it's me?"

"I'm not going back," came the horrified voice. "I'm not going back. I'm not going back. I'm not--"

"Dean! You are _not_ going back! It's me, it's Sam! Say my name, Dean," he said forcefully. "Say my name."

"I'm not going back. I'm not going back. I'm not going back. I'm not--"

Sam got up and slid round in front of him. He grabbed his upper arms and yanked upwards. Dean's head came up.

Sam stared, unable to look away from the frenzied, desperate eyes of his brother. He had never seen such crazed fear in a person. The eyes were staring, the face white, the nostrils flared with desperate rabid breathing, the entire mouth twitching, torn between trembling in fear or screwing up and giving in to hot tears of abject terror.

"Say. My. Name," Sam ordered.

Dean's mouth trembled open. His eyes bored into Sam's for a long moment.

"I'm not going back--"

"_Dean!_" he snapped angrily, watching his brother flinch as if he'd been struck. He swallowed his own fear and pulled on his arms again, making him look back at him. "Say. My. Name."

"S-Sam?" he dared, the timidity heart-rending. "Sammy?"

"Yes. It's me. It's Sam," he said loudly. "It's just me. See?"

He waited, watching Dean's eyes slowly regain some semblance of sanity, some flicker of understanding.

"Smell," Dean whispered hoarsely. "The smell - everywhere."

"You can smell it now?" he demanded. Dean's eyes just gouged lumps out of his. Sam gripped his arms, fearing the harsh truth that his brother was still shaking, still ready to collapse in a small ball. Sam nodded. "We're leaving."

"The smell," Dean gasped, his voice raw. "I'm not going back. I'm not going--"

"Dean! Listen to me!" Sam interrupted, but Dean would not stop. He simply repeated the sentence over and over, his voice weak and hoarse, desperation and fear adding colour and more tone than Sam felt he could deal with. He swallowed and squeezed his fingers into Dean's arms like steel.

Dean flinched, his head dropped, and his voice thinned away to a terrified whimper as he repeated his one sentence over and over: "I'm not going back. I'm not going back. I'm not going back. I'm not going back. I'm not…"

Sam looked away, to the stairs. His mind raced, his heart hammered with the fear. _This is the one thing I didn't see coming_. He looked back at his brother and bit his lip. _He's gonna hate me for this, but…_

He took a deep breath and shook his brother's arms, making him look back at him. "_So close, no matter how far_," he said quietly, never more earnest in his life as he watched Dean's eyes, "_couldn't be much more from the heart. Forever trust in who we are - and nothing else matters._"

Dean's whisper tailed off and he stared. Sam redoubled his efforts.

"_So close, no matter how far,_" he repeated, this time singing as he tried desperately to remember the next part of the song, "_couldn't be much more from the heart. Forever trust in who we are - and nothing else matters._"

He noticed Dean's mouth had begun to hesitate.

"_Never opened myself this way. Life is ours, we live it our way. All these words I don't just say. And nothing else matters_," Sam continued, trying to keep it as slow as possible, making an attempt to sing almost in the right key. "_Trust I seek_," he began, nodding at Dean, noticing his lips start to move along with his words now, "_and I find in you. Every day for us something new. Open your mind for a different view_--"

"_And nothing else matters_," Dean finished, on a whisper. Sam breathed out gratefully. Dean opened his mouth again and they continued together: "_Never cared for what they do. Never cared for what they know. But I know._"

Sam let go with one hand to blindly reach for Dean's fallen gun. He grabbed it and shoved it into his jacket pocket. He pulled on his arms gently, getting to his feet and dragging him with him. "_So close, no matter how far_," he repeated softly, knowing Dean was hooked on the song now.

"_Couldn't be much more from the heart_," his older brother sang, as if to himself, "_Forever trust in who we are, and nothing else matters_."

Sam turned him round but held onto his arms tightly, walking him down the stairs with exaggerated care. Dean's boot slipped off the second step and Sam felt a jolt of shock go through him. He hauled him backwards to make sure he didn't slip down the entire flight of stairs. He blew out a steadying breath and changed his grip to his shoulders. He grasped tightly as he guided him down the rest of the way.

Dean continued to sing a thin, breathy musical rendition of solidity and familiarity to himself, oblivious of Sam's hold on him. His quiet voice did as much to calm Sam as it did him.

.

.

* * *

**_Thanks for reading so far, and much love to you all for leaving reviews! Thanks!_**


	7. 7: The Part With FallOut and TakeOut

**SEVEN**

**The Part With Fall-Out and Take-Out**

.

* * *

.

Sam shuffled them both into the motel room, keeping Dean's arm tight round his neck as he walked them in. Apart from repeating the same song over and over in quiet, breathy verses to himself, Dean had appeared mostly oblivious of the drive back and his brother's attempts to snap him out of whatever haze had descended upon him.

Sam slammed the door with his foot, walking Dean over to the bed and guiding him round. Dean flumped down to sit, and Sam swallowed before going to the duffle behind him. He rooted through it quickly until he found what he wanted and pulled it free. He walked back round the bed to find Dean had put his hands to the mattress either side of him, his eyes still wide and wild, his lips still mouthing the song with a tiny whisper of tune. He started to rock backwards and forwards slightly as Sam crouched in front of him.

"Dean," he said gently. There was no response, and Sam swallowed his fear. He put a hand out to his elbow, interrupting his faint rocking. "Dean. You want a drink?"

He brandished the bottle in Dean's line of sight, shaking it slightly. Dean's gaze appeared to focus on the flashing liquid. He turned his head unhurriedly to look at it properly. He stopped rocking and whispering. He lifted his right hand slowly, taking the heavy bottle.

Sam bit his lip, watching Dean's hands shake as he put his free hand to the lid. But then he paused, looking down at it and letting his face take on a slightly angry air.

He lifted his hand suddenly and hurled the bottle across the room. Sam ducked instinctively. The bottle smashed spectacularly in the far corner. He put his hands out to Dean's arms, alarmed.

"What the hell?" he demanded, unprepared. But he saw Dean's eyes blink and then swivel to look at him.

"It don't change anything," he muttered apologetically. Half of his face made an attempt at a guilty, compunctious smile, but the other side could not raise the spirit. "I just wake up with a head worse than before," he offered, his breath shaking on its way in and out. "Don't change what I see. Don't change what I remember. Don't change a goddamn thing," he asserted quietly.

Sam let go of his arms, nodding dully. They looked at each other for a long moment. At last Dean cleared his throat, gesturing to the other bed with his right hand.

"Let me sleep, Sammy."

"Seriously?"

"Leave me alone." He paused, not looking up. "Just… for a while."

"Ok," he allowed, getting to his feet. He opened his mouth to ask, to check, to let him know he would wait all night if he needed something, anything. But he couldn't make a sound.

He stared down at his big brother, watching the barely discernible shaking of his frame shift the relaxed and whispy strands of fringe in tiny, negligible quivers. The way his hair had fallen flat suddenly put Sam in mind of a dark night and jumping off a bridge to avoid being mowed down by the Impala, apparently driving itself. He suddenly felt the weight of all the time - and experience - that had pressed down on them both since those days of innocent spirit burning and father-hunting.

Dean looked up at him finally, his face a study in raging embarrassment. Sam almost jumped, realising he had lost track of time and space.

"I'll be alright. I've had my nutso-episode, I'll be fine," Dean said lamely.

Sam took a step back with obvious doubt. "If you say so."

"I _say_ so."

"Fine."

"Good."

"Good."

"Fine," Dean managed. He leaned an elbow on his knee, letting his head sink into his palm before scrubbing it through his hair. He felt his mouth go dry and got up abruptly. Sam moved back and away, watching him go into the bathroom.

He breathed out a sigh of relief, walking round to the farther bed and unzipping his duffle, looking for his favourite t-shirt to sleep in. _For some reason, I feel like some continuity tonight._

He paused in his searching as he heard unpleasant gagging noises from the bathroom, and realised his brother was suffering a few physical side-effects of the evening after all.

The image of his brother's crazed stare came back to him again and he closed his eyes on purpose, rubbing at them as if to clear the picture. He managed to get shot of them, hearing his brother empty himself of all the alcohol and any food he may have squeezed in recently, in what sounded like very grateful vomiting.

_He'll need proper breakfast_, Sam sniffed, as taps ran and toilets flushed. He stripped and dressed for bed, rolling everything up and pushing it into his duffle before sliding under his covers. He turned on his side, looking away from the bathroom door, waiting for the sound of the taps and toothbrushes to stop. It did, but then it was quiet for a long time.

Eventually the door opened and the light of the main room went out. The sudden darkness covered a lot of rustling, slight bumps and shoves on the other bed. The springs moved around on Dean's bed and then it all fell silent.

Sam's eyes, wide open and trying desperately to grow accustomed to the pitch, began to make out the shape of the room. He waited, hearing his brother squirm around under his blankets. At last he stopped. Sam sat up slowly, drawing his knees up and putting his arms round them. He pulled his pillows up behind him, angled them to keep him slouched forty-five degrees from his headboard, and got comfortable. He let his eyes settle on the back of his brother's head.

He watched.

It was silent for an eternity. Then Dean's head turned slightly, as if to see over his shoulder in the darkness.

"Sammy?" he breathed.

He hesitated, almost afraid to answer. But he did, even though it came out as a whisper. "Yeah?"

"Your singing sucks," Dean gruffed. Then his head fell back to the pillow comfortably.

Sam smiled in pure relief. He let out a long breath and pulled his blankets up around his neck warmly. He tightened his hold around his shins and got comfortable against the headboard.

He watched.

.

* * *

.

Sam pushed the motel room door open with his foot carefully, manoeuvring the take-out bags and cups with him. He walked in and shoved his trainer in the door to stop it slamming shut behind him. Instead he leaned for the table under the window, putting the bags down before turning and closing the door as silently as he could.

He crept back to the table, watching the immobile lump under the blankets cautiously. He picked up the bags and stole round to the small nightstand in between the beds, putting them down as quietly as possible. He peeled off his jacket and dumped it behind him on his bed, leaning over and opening a bag with care. He pulled out the cardboard box inside and a napkin, placing one on top of the other. The gorgeous smell of freshly-baked bread wafted round the room and Sam smiled to himself. He reached past the bag and picked up the coffee, taking off the lid. He got up and leaned over his still sleeping brother, waving it over his head slowly. The smell of the hot coffee filled the room in an instant.

Sam put it down hurriedly, turning and snatching up the empty bag, balling it up and throwing it into the waste paper bin by his feet. He grabbed the magazine on the floor as he heard a familiar groan. He threw himself at his bed, crossed his ankles, and ripped the magazine open. He blinked at it and turned it in his hands to get it the right way up just as Dean's head lifted slowly from deep within his pillow.

Eyes screwed up in apparent intolerance of the morning light, hair stuck up in very amusing pseudo-crop circles, he wheezed something in protest as he turned his head and let it slap back into the warm cotton of the pillow case. Sam waited, knowing the coffee fumes would soon begin to work their magic through sheer osmosis.

Dean pushed his left arm out from under the blankets. He turned onto his back with the enthusiasm of a thirteen year old on a school morning and put the heels of both hands in his eyes, scrubbing as if they needed screwing back in. He let his hands drop to the top edge of the mattress behind his head and took a good hold of it, stretching right down through his toes and sounding very comfortable. He turned his head, let the side of his face lean on his arm, and simply closed his eyes again.

"Morning," Sam said, sounding bored.

"Mmm," Dean agreed. His eyes blinked open again. "Is that coffee?"

"What does it smell like?" Sam shrugged in a pre-occupied voice, eyes on the magazine. There was a long silence. "Dude," he warned.

"Mmm."

"It's going cold."

"Mmm."

"So's the bagel."

"Bagel?" Dean prompted, his eyes opening again. His head rolled round to look at the ceiling and he took a big sniff. "Bagel," he repeated, this time sounding very pleased. He pushed himself to sit up, leaning back against the headboard and putting his arm out. He picked up the box, opening the lid. "Bagel!"

His enthusiastic tone of voice forced Sam into a private smile but he concentrated on the magazine. Dean put his hand in and pulled out the savoury item, breathing in the very welcome aroma. He looked at his brother slowly.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, putting his other hand up and beginning to tear at it.

"I didn't."

"Yeah right. So where did it come from? The Bagel Fairy?"

"House-keeping," Sam sighed, bored. "It's an amazing invention, Dean. You pick up the phone, ask them nicely, and they bring you stuff."

"Oh," Dean admitted, sounding surprised. "Oh."

"What?" Sam asked, looking over at him. "You don't think I actually got out of bed early on purpose, took your car and went hunting for a shop that sells cinnamon and raison bagels with apple chips in them, just cos I know you like 'em more than even candy?" he scoffed.

"_Pssshhhtt!_ No," Dean protested quickly, with more defensive pout than an entire Olympic basketball team facing imminent drugs-testing. "Like you'd waste your time doing that. Seriously," he scoffed.

Sam looked back at the magazine. "They do good coffee here, too," Sam muttered.

Dean put down his bagel to reach for the hot drink. His head tilted slightly as he studied the cup, then he just shrugged and took a sip.

"Careful, it's--"

"Argh! Fuc--"

"Easy!"

"--od's sake," Dean finished, and Sam turned and blinked large, owlish eyes at him. Dean simply licked at his upper lip in pain. Then he hesitated. "Sam," he said slowly.

"Yes, Dean."

"Why do House-keeping use Starbuck's cups?" he asked innocently.

Sam sighed. "I have no idea, Dean," he said wearily. "Maybe their machine's broken and they sent out for it."

"Right," Dean nodded, before taking another careful sip. His eyes fell on the bagel box. "So they send out for bagels, too? Why would they get them from a shop way over on the other side of town?"

Sam tossed him a look that he could have used to win at poker. "I don't know, Dean. Look, it's a bagel, not an alien autopsy video. I hardly think there's a conspiracy going on here."

"Right," Dean allowed, putting down the coffee. He picked up his bagel again and tore it in half. "Hey, Sam," he called. Sam looked at him and he flung half of his breakfast at him. Sam caught it hurriedly and looked back at him with complete and utter well-crafted innocence. "Your tip, Bagel Fairy," Dean said sweetly.

Sam let out a guilty smile and Dean chuckled as he watched Sam stick his gratuity in his mouth, picking up the magazine again. Dean bit into the bagel to test it before obviously finding it to his satisfaction.

Sam waited nervously until he had wolfed down what was left of the breakfast and his coffee. "So… Do you know something that could help us here?" he asked carefully.

Dean cast him a glance as he yanked back the covers and remembered he had shucked all his clothes bar shorts the night before. He looked around for clean towels. "Like whut?"

"Like… what that thing was that threw me down the stairs," he said lightly.

Dean froze and Sam's head came up from the magazine quickly. He watched him with a wariness born of fear and sympathy.

But Dean pushed himself to swing his legs over the side of the bed slowly. He cleared his throat, not meeting his brother's gaze.

"Not a thing," he managed. "I mean, I didn't actually look at - look at - the thing," he admitted, and Sam noticed a little red come to his cheeks. "I kinda smelt it and… well, you were there," he muttered.

"Lucky I was," he said pointedly.

"Yeah," Dean sniffed. He got to his feet, heading for the bathroom and the towels hung outside it. "I won't be long."

"Good."

The bathroom door closed and it went quiet. Sam sniffed to himself, but when it remained quiet minute after minute, he looked up at the door. He opened his mouth, about to call out, but bit his lip instead.

Presently the door opened again and Dean's head appeared slowly through the gap. "Ah… Sam?" he managed quietly, not looking directly at him.

"Yeah."

"You clean up the whisky I tossed for the fifty-yard line, too?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." His head withdrew through the door and it closed.

Sam went back to his magazine. The door opened up a crack and again, his elder brother poked his head out.

"Sam?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks."

"Whatever."

"Right."

Dean closed the door again and within a minute Sam heard the water start in the shower.

_Then_ he let himself smile.

.

* * *

.

"So run this past me again?" Dean asked, stabbing a fork in the sausage and lifting it from the plate.

"All we know is, he turns into something - probably after he's snacked on some homeless person - and then runs off into the night to kill a hunter," he shrugged. "And that is the sum total of our progress."

Dean vacuumed the piece of sausage from his fork, chewing it noisily as Sam picked up his diner coffee. Dean sniffed, swallowing the food and spearing another piece.

"And we know it started a few weeks ago. So we have a fresh one this morning? Early hours, like the others?" he asked.

"Yup. Just before four a.m., according to the news site," Sam confirmed.

"So who's this morning's newest stiff?" he asked, shovelling more sausage into his mouth.

"Just… slow down there, will you?" Sam urged, eyeing the way the large sausage chunks were being hoovered up by his brother.

"Why?" Dean asked with his mouth full.

"Sausages choke people," Sam said flatly.

"And apparently, hunger kills," Dean smiled knowingly. But he did manage to pause long enough to pick up his coffee. "The stiff?"

"One Ennio Batholo," he said, raising his eyebrows.

Dean coughed on his breakfast instantly and Sam look on with fear. But Dean was already swallowing and sipping at his coffee to wash it down. He took another mouthful and set his cup down.

"Ennio Batholo?" he pressed. Sam nodded, and Dean's eyes went round their sockets like pinballs. "Get Dad's journal."

"Don't tell me," Sam groaned.

"He knew him," Dean nodded, holding his hand out for the book. Sam produced it from his pile of papers and Dean leafed through it quickly. He stopped and turned the book around, sliding it over the glass diner table to his younger brother. "There."

"They worked together once? Just the once? Doing what?" he muttered, surprised, his eyes glued to the page.

"Read on," Dean said heavily.

Sam looked up at him, sensed the discomfort, and flicked his eyes back down to the hand-written notes.

"'_Batholo says they get into you by sensing grief. It's like a crack that they slip through_'," he read quietly. "'_The host may not even know, except after the thing has eaten someone and/or left trophies in the place it uses to hide_'." He raised his eyes. "Sure sounds like Matthew."

"I'm guessing he was pretty cut up about his mom dying," Dean nodded. "I'm guessing Matthew's been jumped by this son of a bitch, and now it's making its way down the list of hunters in this burg."

"And it's gotten the list from Matthew's contacts?"

"That's what I'd do," Dean shrugged. Sam pouted in thought, looking down the rest of the notes.

"So… Dad killed one of these things. Him and Batholo. Now this one is coming round to get revenge? On anyone that's ever killed one?"

"Could be," Dean shrugged. "Question is, what exactly is it, and how do we kill it?"

"That's two questions," Sam smiled. But he looked down at the book, reading. He tutted suddenly, leafing back and forth a few pages.

"Whut?"

"There's a page missing," he huffed. "Could have been the one with the date, the progress notes, pictures, descriptions, lore, you know, the _important_ page."

"Well don't be looking at me - you're the one who guards it with his life," Dean shrugged, going for more sausage. He snagged an entire pork example and it disappeared into his mouth faster than sugar in coffee.

"So how can we work out who it's gunning for next? Then at least we have a chance at stopping it."

"Any hunters left in town?" Dean hazarded. "Cos I'm bettin' their name's on the gallows 'Coming Soon' poster."

"I can call Bobby, see if he knows anyone left around here."

"Super," Dean nodded, jabbing his fork into the last sausage and wolfing it down. Sam just watched, then shook his head. "Be nice if Bosun could show up. Then we might explain a few things. Must make him feel better to know his son's not exactly the murderer he thinks he is."

"Yeah," Sam conceded. "Ah… We might have a problem here," he added quietly, paging backwards and forwards again.

"Whut now?"

"Well… It doesn't say how they killed it either," he stated, scratching his head.

"That's not like Dad."

"Yeah. Listen to this: '_It's dead. We got the son of a bitch. Touch and go for a while though - almost took Batholo's leg clean off, and he'll have to tell people it's a shark bite. He's ok now, but I don't think he'll get much sleep for a few years_'. What does that mean?" he mused.

"Who knows?" Dean sighed. He pushed his fork into the mountain of scrambled egg on his plate, scraping it all up with repeated, happy chomping sounds.

Sam sat back, folding his arms. "How anyone can get so much happiness from food I'll never know," he teased.

"Well hey, I was dead for four months. I missed my proper breakfasts," he smiled.

"Fair enough," Sam nodded. "So are we going to Agent-up and visit Sheriff Williams? Get the low-down on poor Mr Batholo and check for the usual signs?"

"Yup," Dean replied with a mouth half-full of grilled mushrooms. "Just gimme a minute."

.

* * *

.

"Thanks there, Sheriff," Dean said politely, shaking hands. Williams nodded, pleased to be of service.

"Good to see you on your feet again, Agent McClane," he beamed. "Agent Riggs said you been under the weather recently."

Dean let his hands drop into his pockets, rocking on his heels as he cast Sam's shiny shoes a glance, a few feet behind him.

"Yeah well. All better now," he said pleasantly.

"Glad to hear it. Now anything else you want, you just gimme a call, you hear? I have to admit, having you two actually asking me for help is so much easier than having them FBI fellas breathing down my neck," he admitted.

"Well that's FBI for you," Dean grinned. "Be seein' you."

They nodded to each other and Dean turned smartly, walking straight past Sam and back toward the pavement. Sam's longer legs fell into step beside him and they walked in silence.

Once they were out of earshot, Sam cleared his throat.

"So poor Ennio Batholo was hanged, as per the MO. Cos he worked with Dad to gank one of these things?"

Dean put his hand inside his suit jacket slowly, pulling out a piece of paper. "You missed this little newsflash," he said, handing the piece to Sam. He read it slowly.

"Ennio Batholo bought something from Ray Spiegal - the first suspicious death?" he pondered. "He bought a book of original spellwork from him?" he added, reading the smudged invoice.

"My guess is these guys may be tighter than just fellow hunters," Dean observed. "Ray Spiegal sold him a book, perhaps with a spell to kill this thing. Dad worked with Ennio - obviously this thing is a little behind the times, trying to get Dad too--"

"Hey," Sam said abruptly, grabbing Dean's arm to stop him. "You don't think maybe… Maybe this thing was after Dad, and thought Bosun was him?"

"How could he think Bosun was Dad?" Dean asked clearly.

"Cos… Well, _I_ thought he was Dad in the parking lot," he reasoned.

"Good point," Dean allowed, walking on.

Sam followed. "The only difference with this murder is that there were no initials, cos I guess Bosun didn't bother marking it this time," he ventured.

"Where is he, anyway?" Dean muttered. "You'd have thought he'd want an update on how we plan to stop his son, even if he is a host for some mutant creature thing that stinks of The Pit," he shivered.

"Yeah," Sam agreed uneasily. There was a piercing ringtone and they stopped. Sam patted his suit pockets and pulled out his phone. He put it to his ear quickly. "Hey Bobby."

Dean pulled out his car keys, walking toward the Impala. He unlocked her and waited while Sam caught him up, muttering information into the phone.

"Uh-huh," he havered. "I see. We'll do our best to find him before tomorrow morning, warn him," he continued. "Yeah. Thanks, Bobby. Yeah, and you."

He put the phone back in the pocket of his suit trousers and looked at his brother across the car.

"Bobby got a list of hunters?"

"Just one, as far as he knows. Says he's not much of a hunter, more a hit-n-miss profiteer who used to be big league. These days he lives off stories and selling occult crap."

"So he used to be a Bobby, but now he's just another Bela?" Dean nodded, squeaking his door open. He slid into the driver's seat as Sam opened his door and followed suit.

"Seems that way. We have to find him."

"Name?"

"Jeremy Winston Pattingale," Sam said with a smile. "Can't be too many of those in the phonebook."

"You gotta be kidding me," Dean grinned. "Well, should make this easy, then."

.

* * *

.

"Modest place," Dean frowned, sliding the old girl into Park and looking at the house at the side of their piece of pavement.

"Perhaps he's not doing too well selling charms and amulets," Sam shrugged. "You doing this?"

"You got them puppy dog eyes, you talk to him," Dean grunted. Sam watched him, then cleared his throat and pushed his door open slowly. "I'll just watch your back, though," he added. He got out of the car, following him across the pavement and to the door.

Sam leaned on the doorbell, fishing in his jeans pocket for the NSA badge. Dean pushed at his arm, confusion on his face as he gestured to the shiny badge.

"So we can get in. What are we gonna say, '_hey Mr Pattingale, we're hunters and you're in danger_'?" Sam reasoned.

Dean waved a hand at his clothes. "What are we gonna say, '_hey Mr Pattingale, we're NSA but today's National Denim At Work Day_'?"

"Like he's going to care after he's seen the badges and started shitting bricks over them," he pointed out. "He _was_ a hunter."

"Good point," Dean acceded, putting his hands in his own jeans pockets and then inside his black jacket to locate his fake badge.

The door opened suddenly and a man filled the doorway. A tall man. A wide man. A man whose eyes went from Sam to Dean, and stayed there.

"You!" he gasped.

"Oh this is priceless," Dean gaped, then smiled quickly. "Look, I'm not here for another bar room brawl," he said quickly, as the man took a step back.

"We're from the NSA," Sam put in quickly, lifting his badge in earnest.

"NSA?" he gasped. "Shit - is this about the last three - er - altercations?" he said quickly. "Cos I was drunk, you see, and you really did tick me off, stealing my date like that--"

"Relax, Mr Pattingale," Dean said quickly, waving his hands. "We're gonna have to write in to Ripley with this one - but we really are actually here to _save_ you."

.

.


	8. 8: The Part With Unorthodox Research

**EIGHT**

**The Part With Unorthodox Research**

.

"So let me get this straight," Jeremy Winston Pattingale said heatedly, waving hands at the two Winchesters as he paced his front room. "You said you were NSA to get in my front door. Now you say you _aren't_ NSA. You're actually hunters, and you're trying to stop some man who's a host for some creature you can't even identify, and you think he's going to come after me?"

Dean looked at his feet but Sam nodded.

"Yes," he said earnestly. "Believe me, Mr Pattingale, you're the last hunter in Springfield. Odds-on favourite is you."

"Right," he sighed. He stopped pacing and sat in a large armchair slowly. "It's just… I haven't even been hunting for… I don't know how long," he admitted. He looked up at Dean. "I'm rusty, you know that. Hell, I couldn't even win a bar fight against a drunk when I was sober."

"Hey," Dean protested, but Sam put a placating hand out.

"We sympathise," he interrupted, then noticed Dean eyeing him with a disapproving pout. "At least, _I_ do. Anyway, we need to know what you might know about this thing. We thought it was just going after any hunter, but at least one of them has seen this thing before. Now… We have to ask - how much of a hunter were you?"

Pattingale sat back and appraised Sam slowly. "How old are you?" he asked sadly.

"Why?" Sam blinked.

"Cos I'm thirty-eight. Thirty-eight years old. And I've seen stuff that would turn your hair white," he sighed.

"Well hey, I'm only twenty-nine and I've seen stuff that would turn your pants brown," Dean said amiably. Pattingale stared at him. "Oh yeah," he breathed, "believe it, buddy." He wandered over to the mantelpiece, bending slightly to look at the photos on it.

"I took out a demon once," he shrugged. "I had help."

"From who?" Sam asked, curious.

"Daniel Becker, would you believe," he said. "Heard he died recently. Too bad. I bought all kindsa stuff from him - he always knew how to get me the right ingredients," he added sadly.

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance, but Pattingale didn't notice. "It was soon after the whole demon thing that I got out of the game. Couldn't really get my head round it all," he was saying.

"Why's that?" Dean muttered, still studying the pictures.

"Well… This is gonna sound a little stupid, but…" He paused, then sat forwards and put his hands on his knees, looking at Sam intently. "I got the vampires, and the rawheads, and the… the zombies and all that shit," he nodded. Sam folded his arms slowly. "But… demons? Seriously? That means there's actually a Devil, and Hell, and… and that means there might be a God."

Dean laughed abruptly, and the other two turned to look at him. He sniffed and looked round at the ex-hunter in his chair.

"What?" Pattingale asked.

"Nuthin'. Well, just… Demons? Yeah, we seen a few. Sent 'em home, used 'em, abused 'em, screwed 'em," he allowed, avoiding Sam's hard gaze. "But the Devil? God? Jury's still out on those two clowns," he sniffed, turning away again.

Pattingale looked at Sam slowly. "Who the hell are you two?" he demanded. "You're not regular hunters, right? What are you, like über-hunters? You deal with the high-end of the 'holy shit' market?"

"I like that," Dean smiled suddenly, turning and looking at Sam. "Über-hunters. Yeah, I like that," he nodded to himself.

"We've just been in the game a long time," Sam admitted. "Look, you've met a demon once. Ever met anything worse? Anything else that could have come from Hell?"

"From Hell?" Pattingale prompted. "You mean, like… something not a demon?"

"Exactly like something not a demon," Dean said, turning round. He looked at him. "Anything else at all that you just knew was a whole bag of wrong, and you killed it or torched it or sent it back to Hell and decided you never wanted to think about it again?"

Pattingale thought for a long moment. He sat back in the chair, wiping a tired hand over his face. He looked back at the Winchesters, his face screwed up in thought.

"Not that I can recall," he said at length.

Dean nodded to himself slowly. "So then… Did you sell stuff to Ennio Batholo?"

"Ennio?" he blinked. "I sold him stuff all the time," he shrugged. "Just heard about him on the news today. Damn shame, y'know - he was a brilliant hunt--." He stopped short, then his face paled, shot through with fear. "He's dead cos of this thing you're after? And Daniel Becker too?"

"Bingo," Dean nodded. "So think again. You being the last hunter in town an' all, and top of the midnight snack-or-hang board."

Pattingale swallowed and put his head in his hands, thinking. "I sold him ah… Ah… a few things," he said. "I sold him a few bottles of some weird mixture. Mostly he asked me to get stuff and and I got it, then passed it on plus my sourcing fee."

"You ever get him something when he had a partner?" Sam interrupted.

"Ennio never had a partner," Pattingale said, raising his head. "Except this one time - said he was working with John Winchester on something really nasty." He paused, a thoughtful look crossing his features. "What was it I sold 'em?"

Sam looked at his brother, but Dean gestured to the other man with his head. Sam walked over and sat on the sofa, leaning forward to look at him with intent.

"Mr Pattingale," he said clearly. "You have to remember what you sold them. You have to tell us what it was, and then get some more."

"It's the same thing?" he said fearfully. "Ennio said he had sleepless nights for months after that hunt."

"Did he say what it was? Did he say how they killed it?" Sam pressed.

"No - no. He wouldn't say what it was. Said just thinking about it turned his stomach, and his knees. I'll have to look in my books, see what I wrote down about selling 'em." He got to his feet slowly. "And if this thing comes for me? What then?"

"We'll be back," Sam said, standing and pulling out a piece of paper from his pocket. He went through his pockets for a pen, until Pattingale looked around and handed one to him. Sam took it and scrawled down his number quickly. "Any trouble before we get back, you call me. If you can't get me, call Dean," he said, adding a second number underneath.

"Y'know…" Pattingale began, looking at him, "we heard through the grapevine that John Winchester bought it a while ago. Ennio was upset," he added, turning to the taller man.

"How so?" he asked, passing him the paper.

"Well, Ennio said… He said he liked John, said he was the only man he ever trusted enough to hunt with," he said quietly. "Others did translating or sourcing for him - Frank Abel was one of them, I think," he mused. "But no-one ever came close to John, in Ennio's eyes. Said he was the best of the best."

"I'll bet he was," Dean said quietly. "You look through them books, Pattingale. You find whatever it was you sold Ennio and John. Cos we could really do with it."

"And if you have any idea what the creature was, you call us," Sam said firmly.

"Ok," Pattingale said weakly. "'Scuse me. I need to call in sick at work," he managed.

"Good boy," Dean nodded, already walking to the door.

.

* * *

.

Sam sat back, closing the book with a thud that reverberated around the library.

"Don't tell me," Dean sighed, looking at him from across the table, "you got nuthin' too."

"My eyes hurt," Sam whined, rubbing at them thoroughly. Dean's eyes dropped to the page in front of him, his head resting comfortably in the knuckles against his temple. He let his elbow slide out along the table a little, bringing him closer to the pages spread in front of him.

"Well this is doing nothing but bring back picture-postcard shots of The Pit," he said cheerfully, lifting the hardback cover and closing it. "Why can't we get monsters that look like doughnuts? Or pie?"

"We got that teddy bear," Sam reasoned.

"Oh yeah," Dean mused. "So what now, Sherlock? Any ideas?"

"One," Sam admitted. "But you're not going to like it."

"Do we have to sit in this library all evening?" he groaned.

"No."

"Well it can't be all that bad," he shrugged, leaning back in his chair and stretching noisily. Other people looked over at him, annoyed at the sound. He simply sniffed, oblivious, rubbing his nose. He looked up when he realised Sam hadn't answered him. "Whut?"

"Well… Whatever the thing is, it stinks of The Pit," Sam said quietly. Dean just watched him, his face immobile. "So… I'm thinking that's where it's come from."

"Makes sense," he allowed.

"So… do _you_ have any idea what it could be?"

"Other than a demon? No," Dean said dismissively. He moved to get up from the table, but Sam grabbed his forearm quickly, holding him down. Dean just looked at him, surprised. "I don't think they allow dancing in here, Sammy."

"Dean. I know you don't want to do this, but think for a minute. Hell must be full of all kinds of creatures and demonic pets or fiends. Could this thing be one of them?" he hissed, trying to keep his voice down.

Dean shook his arms free slowly, drawing it back and watching his brother calmly. "It could," he nodded. "But I have no idea what, Sam."

"You're sure?" he pressed. "You didn't see something like this--"

"I spend most of my time trying not to remember the things I saw. But if it had been something big, black and nasty with bat wings and eyes like Hellfire, I think I would have recognised it straight away." He paused, but he appeared entirely too calm as he watched Sam with empty eyes. "I didn't even get a good look at it as it went down the stairs. I do not know what it is," he said clearly.

Sam sighed through his nose quietly, watching him. _So how do you know about the eyes like Hellfire?_ Then his eyebrows lifted and he was the most apologetic puppy ever to have been found next to a wet patch on a new rug.

"I'm sorry, man," he admitted.

"Yeah well," Dean sighed, getting to his feet and picking up the book, "everybody's sorry for something."

He walked off, finding a place to put the book back. Sam watched him go, then shook his head.

.

* * *

.

Sam gave up trying to sleep and opened his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. He squirmed in the warm motel bed, sliding his hands behind his head and huffing long and loud.

He looked over to the other bed, finding Dean very much buried in his pillow and what appeared to be a peaceful state of rest.

_Makes a change_, he snorted. He looked back at the ceiling. _Is he lying about not recognising that thing in the house? And if he is, who's he lying to, him or me?_

Dean stirred and grunted something. Sam spared him a glance before focusing again on the ceiling.

_Four deaths now, four hunters. Ray Spiegal, who sold books of spellwork. David Becker, who sourced occult crap for Pattingale. Frank Abel, who did translations. And finally Ennio, who ganked it with Dad. What am I missing? Why can't I see what's going on here?_

He sighed and shifted slightly, rubbing an eye. _Each hunter killed by this thing we can't find a name for, but literally flew straight past us on the stairs. Just what the hell was it? And why's it only targeting hunters in Springfield?_

He heard blankets moving and turned onto his right side, to study the bathroom door.

_This smell that freaks Dean out - you can only smell it if you've been to Hell? Cos I sure didn't get anything, either time he said he could. Can he really smell anything at all, or is it just his mind playing tricks on him? Bet Ruby would know what it was._

He heard more shuffling and a soft murmur, and shook his head at himself.

_There's no way I'm letting her near him right now. He's close enough to the deep end as it is. He doesn't need her upsetting what little balance he's got. Is it my fault? It is my fault I didn't realise going back to that place would terrify him like that? I should have known. He smelt it before and ran, and I made him go back in when we knew whatever stank like that was in there. What was I thinking?_

He huffed and rolled out of bed, going to the table under the window. He sat slowly, opening the laptop and pressing the power button.

_I have to find something. Anything._

"Hey Sam," came a soft voice. He jumped, then looked to his left. Bosun flickered in and out slowly, his hands in his jacket pockets, watching him. "Whatcha got so far?"

"We know it's not exactly your son," he whispered. He stole a glance at the far bed, but other than shifting around on his back, Dean didn't seem bothered.

"Thank God," Bosun breathed.

"Well… not really," Sam havered, and the spirit's face took on a lot of worry.

"Meaning?"

"We think he's a host for something. Something from Hell. It's taking him over and going out killing hunters."

"What?" Bosun breathed. "You mean… Is this thing just riding him like a demon would? Is he still alive? Really?"

"We don't know," Sam admitted edgily. He looked back at the laptop, finding it ready and waiting. He pressed the requisite keys to connect him to the 'net. "We think it's not a demon."

"Then what could it be?"

"We don't know. I'm thinking… some kind of creature or Hell-made fiend thing," he whispered. He opened the browser and his favourite search engine page appeared. Bosun was quiet for a long moment, and Sam looked at him even as he typed. "Sorry."

"What for?"

"Well, for… Right now there's only a small chance that Matthew's still in there. And I don't yet know what we have to do to get the thing out, or what condition it will leave Matthew in when we're done. Assuming we're successful."

"Oh, son," Bosun sighed, running a hand through his pseudo-hair. "If he's being possessed and it's not a demon, I really don't think you have a choice, here."

"You sound like Dean," he whispered.

"Does that make me wrong?" he smiled. Sam looked up at him, but Bosun turned to look over at the bed and the shifting form underneath. "You know, I knew he'd end up like his old man, even though I think some days it was the last thing he'd wish on anyone," he sighed.

"You don't know how right you are," Sam managed to himself. Bosun turned to look at him.

"Nah, I mean it. You two have done alright, getting this far without John. I'm impressed."

"Yeah well. The end doesn't justify the means," Sam grumped.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bosun asked sharply. Sam looked over as Dean turned on one side, muttering something.

"Just that… sometimes you do things just to get you through, y'know?" Sam offered. Bosun looked at him, and the impression of guilt and shame he received surprised him. "When you're down the lowest you can be, and you do something real stupid cos it's better than the same goddamned thing going over and over in your head and you can't do anything about it…" He paused, swallowing and looking back at his laptop.

Bosun lifted a hand, reaching for Sam's shoulder. Then he stopped himself, looking at it guiltily.

"I know the feeling," he commiserated. "It does get better. But then, you know that," he observed. "You two are still here, right?"

"Oh yeah," Sam snorted quietly, "not even death could stop us two."

Bosun laughed softly, shaking his head. He watched Sam bend over the computer, his eyes searching and typing.

"So you lookin' up this Hell creature?" he asked.

"Yeah," he whispered. There was a shuffle and an annoyed mumble, but when Sam looked over at the bed, Dean still appeared oblivious. "You got any ideas?"

"Never been," he admitted. "Couldn't say."

"Hey - you alerted us to Ray Spiegal, David Becker and Frank Abel. So did you know Ennio Batholo?" he asked quickly.

"Sure - they were tight as, those guys. Always helping each other out. I lost track of them when I got away from it all," he shrugged. "Why?"

"This thing seems to be after them specifically. I just don't know if it was cos they were all hunters in Springfield, or cos they were involved in something."

"Well hey, Ennio didn't always live here. He was stuck here for about six months after some big gig he did. Convalescing, he said. After he was thinking of hunting again, he'd already sunk in here. Started using it for his base of operations - or so I heard."

"Hah," Sam nodded slowly, thinking. "You know what that big gig was?"

"No idea." He was quiet for a moment. "But… I get the feeling my time here is kinda limited."

"Why do you say that?" Sam asked quickly.

"Cos… well, every time I see you, I stick around less and less. Don't know why, but I could be burning my candle both ends visiting you two," he said slowly.

Sam looked at him. "I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry this happened to you. Dean was really pleased to see you. I haven't seen him pleased like that in… Well, we've had a lot of bad luck, and seeing you appear out of the past was good for him."

Bosun nodded. "I'm just sorry John's not here. Would have liked to have caught up with the old bastard," he grinned, making Sam smile.

"Yeah. Don't we all." He sighed. "We could have used his help right about now. He was with Ennio Batholo when they killed the last one of these things."

"You think this is connected to Ennio?" Bosun prompted. "There was this time he came calling, wanted me to give him John's whereabouts. Said he something really big about to go down and needed the one person he could rely on to tell him up from down."

Sam froze, then turned in his chair to look at him slowly. "Was this the big gig that nearly cost him his leg here in Springfield? Did he say what it was?"

"Yes it was, but no, he never said. I didn't see him again after that - I was already out of the game, and no use to him. Heard he was still around though."

"Until this morning, when the creature we're after hanged him in his home," Sam whispered.

Bosun looked at the ceiling, then shook his head slowly. "You gotta find this thing, Sam. You gotta kill it."

"We will," he said.

"Oh. Looks like my time might be up for tonight," Bosun said suddenly, and Sam noticed him fading in and out. "I'll go before I'm kicked out. Good luck. I'll stop in again soon. Remember Sam - killing him when he's trapped in Matthew might be the only way."

"Yeah," he muttered reluctantly. Bosun nodded once, and then he was gone.

Sam sat back from the computer, shaking his head slowly. He thought about it for a long time, the room silent and still save the occasional whir of the laptop fan coming on and off as it chose.

_So… Ennio came to Springfield and asked Bosun for Dad's address. And he bought stuff from Pattingale, also in Springfield. So the original one was ganking people right here, and this is where they killed it._

He tapped information into the search engine, trying again. _Was after 1986, when Bosun gave up hunting. Musta been before around… 1994? '95? Dean was already sneaking out on hunts with Dad. It must have been between then._

He tapped and searched, scratched his head and saved information, pictures, articles on hangings or any unsolved murders in Springfield, Missouri. It was an hour later he realised he could hear rustling and mumbling, and it was possible it had been going on for a few minutes, if not more.

"I'll turn it off when I'm ready, Dean," he said, pre-occupied. There was no pissy reply and he paused in his reading, lifting his head to listen. He could hear tiny, hoarse breaths. There were short, irregular bursts of blankets moving and he turned around.

"_Sunnabich_," came a barely-there grunt.

Dean was squirming uncomfortably under the blankets on his back as if all of it burned. He twisted and turned, his head pressing into the pillow. His hands were screwing up the blankets mercilessly, a slight whimper coming from his locked off throat.

"--_you in - tiny - pieces!_" he hissed unexpectedly.

Sam jumped out of his chair, hearing the muttered protests, the anguished refusals. He hurried over to his brother's bed. He grasped at his arm and shook it.

"Dean! Wake up!" he shouted.

His brother simply writhed and pushed, trying to free himself of something, his heels pushing at the mattress in desperation.

"Dean!" He let go of his arm and slapped at his brother's face.

Dean's eyes crashed open and he gasped in a breath, looking up. He heaved in air, his eyes wide, staring into those of his brother.

Sam backed away and sat on his bed with a heavy thud.

Dean just stared into nothingness, running a tongue over dry lips and assessing the situation. He sat up slowly, swallowing and looking round at his brother fearfully.

"Paper," he croaked.

"Sorry, what?" Sam gaped.

"Paper," Dean repeated, clearing his throat. "And a pen."

Sam got up and went to his collection of research on the table under the window. He carried over his notebook and a pen, sitting on the edge of Dean's bed and handing them over.

Dean grabbed them and flipped randomly to an empty page, turning the pen round in his hand and sniffing to himself. He ran the pen over the page fluidly, his wrist twisting and turning as he sketched something. He paused, changing the pen to his left hand to dash it against his eye suddenly, and Sam realised with a start that it was carrying a little more water than it should have been.

He transferred the pen back and added a few more lines before he looked at the picture critically. He cleared his throat and looked at his blankets, passing the notebook back to his younger brother.

"What's this?" Sam asked.

He studied the picture of some odd-shaped creature. Its short, sharp ears were almost canine in appearance, its ugly, pug-nosed visage bristling with teeth and what looked like spines that covered the lower half. It didn't appear to have eyes, but long indents running up through the middle of the head could have passed for breathing apparatus. Its apparently smoothly muscled shoulders sported a set of wings. Wide and bat-like, complete with small hands on the end of each web-spine, they stuck up proudly from the shoulder blades. The waist tapered down to a single tail that split and forked at the end. What could once have been small claws protruded from each side of the tail, just where rear bones appeared to stick out on the opposite side. Its ribs stood out under the skin, and unless Dean's pen had been careless in its strokes, it appeared to have long, tooth-edged slits in the breastbone.

He tore his eyes away and managed to look at his brother.

Dean was looking at the blankets, biting his lip. He let it go, raising his eyes but not his head.

"My best guess," he breathed. "It felt familiar but… I couldn't remember. I just couldn't remember." He paused, clearing his throat, his gaze firmly fixed on the bed in front of him. "And then I did. I reckon it's what threw you down the stairs, Sammy. It's what stinks of The Pit."

"This is it? This is the thing that's got Matthew as a host?"

Dean nodded.

Sam stood slowly, backing away one. "And you know this because?"

"Because…" Dean paused to clear his throat. Then he looked up at Sam directly. "Because if they get bored carving people up down there, they go out for lunch. And they leave their Hell-spawned attack-dogs with half an eff'd up brain in the room to play with you."

"This is what--. You've _seen_ one?"

"I've had one chewing on my insides, if that's what you mean," he said clearly. Sam stared at him in horror, but Dean seemed possessed of a sudden purpose, a sudden courage that made his eyes bright to behold. "Which is how I know what they fear. Which is how I know it'll come after Pattingale." He paused, an evil smile flitting over his smooth features. "Which is why, my brother, you and me are gonna find this evil son of a bitch and cut him into very, _very_ small pieces."

.

.


	9. 9: The Part Where A Little Insider Infor...

**NINE**

**The Part Where A Little Insider Information Goes A Long Way**

.

* * *

.

Dean picked up all of Sam's notes and carried them over to stand by his bed. Sam folded his arms, watching him.

"Ray Spiegal," Dean read, putting the piece of paper with his name on it on the blankets. "Sold a book of spells to Ennio." He looked at the next sheet, ripped from Sam's notebook. "Daniel Becker - sold stuff to Pattingale, and I'm guessin' it was the stuff that went with the spell from the book." He dropped the name next to Spiegal's. "Pattingale sold it on to Ennio." He put Ennio's name lower and to the right. "Now Ennio has the bottle of juice and the spell, but maybe he can't read it. So he goes to…" He looked at the next name. "Frank Abel - and gets a translation." He dropped the name to the bed, higher and to the right again. "Now Ennio's got the juice, the spell, and how to read it. Now he needs someone to help him perform the spell or ritual to kill it. So he calls Dad, his favourite hunter."

He stood back, looking at the circle of names on the bed and the one name in the middle. "Just Pattingale is left. Everyone else is dead - cos they all helped Ennio to do something. Kill the thing."

"So why Matthew Bosun?" Sam muttered, his eyes and brain whirring at top speed as he processed it all minutely.

"Cos he was all grief-stricken and just wide open to possession?" Dean hazarded. "And like you said, his dad looked like _our_ dad. Easy way to get to someone it mistook for one of the other culprits."

"Hold on," Sam said quickly, "you think Dad tore the missing page from his journal?"

"If it scarred Ennio for life, chances are it gave Dad the screaming heebie-jeebies too," Dean reasoned. "Maybe he junked it so he wouldn't have to keep shuffling past the page he don't want to look at every time." He looked back down at the names on the bed. "Now this thing thinks it's wiping out everyone who ganked the original one - it thinks everyone's dead but Pattingale."

"Right!" Sam gasped, snapping his fingers. "So this thing is just going after the hunters who've killed one before." He turned away and went to the table, snatching up his notebook and bringing it over. "In 1989 there were deaths in Springfield - not hangings, but four people were burnt to ashes. Nothing else was touched - it was like spontaneous combustion."

"And cos they didn't want to consign it to the X-Files filing cabinet, they left them unsolved?" Dean guessed.

Sam looked up quickly, staring at him. "The filing cabinet. The filing cabinet!"

"Meaning?"

"When I went to see Sheriff Williams someone had broken into the station and been through the filing cabinet, but the FBI guys said whoever it was had left nothing for forensics whatsoever. I'm betting it was Matthew - or this thing - it musta been looking for all their addresses," he hissed.

Dean blinked. "Woah. How do you know these guys were in there?"

"Sheriff Williams said Frank Abel had been arrested for being drunk and disorderly at some point - and so had his _friends_. And Bosun said they were thick as thieves."

"Well ain't you two just Randall and Hopkirk Deceased. You're hoping they were in the filing cabinet too? Thin, Sam. Anorexic," Dean sighed, shaking his head. "But right now, it's the best we got. So we going to Pattingale and checking he can actually give us some proof of all this?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, hurrying back to the table. He threw down his notebook and turned to his bed, snatching up his shirt. He pulled it on quickly, looking round for his jeans. He turned and noticed Dean hadn't moved. "What?" he asked, seeing his older brother's fingers twist together lightly.

"Look… If I'm right, and it really is this creature thing from Hell, well…"

"It's going to stink," Sam interrupted. "You… ah… you gonna be ok?"

"Sammy," he tutted dismissively, turning away resolutely.

"Dean - if you think you're going to lose the plot again when it arrives, I need to know now," he said carefully.

Dean turned on him swiftly, crossing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. He jabbed an iron finger into his chest.

"I owe it," he growled, and Sam fought the instinct to stand back. "I owe it. We're gonna go find it, and so help me, I'm gonna rip every goddamn limb off that friggin' Hellspawn and the last thing it's gonna see is its own entrails on my knife."

He let his hand drop and turned away again smartly.

Sam realised he was holding his breath and let it out slowly. He watched his brother locate his duffle and pull out a shirt and jeans. Then he swallowed and turned back to his own bed, and clothes.

.

* * *

.

They pulled up at the house in silence. Sam had kept his eyes on his side window the whole journey, having sensed Dean's carefully masked anger slowly stoking the fires of vengeance as they drove.

The engine stopped and they climbed out and went to the boot of the car, opening it up and the false bottom to reveal the shiny weapons underneath.

Dean hissed air out between his teeth, thinking. Sam reached in and took his handgun from the hanging strap, but Dean put a hand on his sleeve. Sam let go and stood back. Instead, Dean bent down and sorted through various implements until he straightened. He turned to his brother, holding out a long knife.

"Sam," he said firmly. Sam paused his hand before it could take the handle. He flicked his gaze to his brother's stone face. "If this don't go the way we want… No iPods, this time. Ok?"

"What?"

"If there's a choice between me and it coming out, I know which one I want," he said with determination. "But if that don't happen - well, you looked after the old girl the last time. Just don't go sticking your iPod in there."

"Dean," he managed. He put his hand up and took the knife slowly. "I'm not letting this thing live. But I'm not letting you die, either."

"Whatever," he grunted, turning back to the arsenal. He picked up two more knives of curious shapes and secreted them inside his jacket. "Right," he said, closing the boot and straightening his jacket. "Get your laptop. You're gonna have to check something while we wait for night."

.

* * *

.

Pattingale heard the doorbell and froze for a long instant. Sure that no vengeful creature would simply come in through the normal channels, he made himself relax and went through the house, looking through the spy-hole before opening the door quickly.

"Hey," he said weakly, watching the Winchesters push past him and into the hallway.

"Don't worry," Sam said quickly, turning and putting his laptop down on the side table, "everything's under control."

"Really?" he blurted. He looked at Dean, sensed angry clouds following him closely, and shut the door smartly. "So… what do we do?"

"You tell us everything that Daniel Becker sold to you to sell to Ennio," Sam said. "We need to know exactly how they killed the last one, in 1989."

"1989!" Pattingale gasped. "I was just looking through old receipts and I found a bunch of weird stuff from 1989!"

"Show us," Dean said curtly. Pattingale looked at him, but something about the younger man's eyes made him turn away quickly.

"The study - in the basement," he said, walking off. Sam picked up his laptop and the two boys followed.

.

* * *

.

"Here," he said quietly, handing the old, hand-written invoice to Dean. He read it quickly.

"I have no clue what this is," he muttered, taking in the date, the names on the top. "And Becker sold you this, and you sold it on to Ennio?"

"Yeah. I guess that's what he used."

"What is it?" Sam asked, getting up from the laptop and coming over. "Oh. That's summoning juice," he blinked. "You have to pour it on the sigil and use certain metal compounds to light it."

"How do you even know that?" Pattingale gasped.

"Done a lot of summoning," Sam said darkly. He walked back to the laptop. "So this thing… It came from Hell. Got out, whatever. Rampaged through this town, killing people left and right. Ennio and his group of helpers found out what it was and summoned it. Killed it and destroyed the remains, job done," he said slowly. "So how did this one get out? How did this one know who to--"

"Oooohhhhh," Dean mused suddenly, flicking the paper in his fingers as he looked at the ceiling. Pattingale and Sam watched him. Dean's shoulders sagged slightly as he took a deep breath. "Ok, try this on for size," he said knowingly. "This group got the right stuff. Ennio and Dad summoned it. They thought they'd killed it--"

"Dad?" Pattingale wondered.

"--by chopping it into small pieces and destroying the parts. But what if they missed one tiny piece? What if they didn't know they'd left a weeny-assed piece of brain behind?"

"What happens then?" Sam asked, ignoring Pattingale's confused face.

"It grows back," Dean said meaningfully, looking at his younger brother.

"It grows _back_?" Sam demanded. "So… this could be the same one? It's waited nineteen years to get revenge, and now it's finding everyone who cut it into pieces in the first place?"

"Nineteen years could be about right for an entire replacement," Dean shrugged. "I seen 'em lose a limb and the next month it's back again."

"You've seen--." Pattingale closed his mouth quickly. He swallowed and waved hands at them both. "Look, look," he said quickly. "Ok, I get it. This thing has come from Hell and it's been out a long time, and it's killing everyone who tried to kill it the first time - but how do you _know_ all this?"

"We got insider information," Dean allowed. He looked at Sam. "Find us a church."

"Why?" he asked, even as he went back to the laptop and sat quickly.

"Cos you hear people threaten their torturers while they're squirming around, Sammy. And you hear 'em say things like '_holy ground_' and '_head_'. I'm guessing once we've shredded this bastard, we need to stash its entire head somewhere on holy ground. Then it won't matter how good it is at regenerating body parts, it ain't going to be able to grow a damned thing."

"Literally," Sam smiled wickedly.

Dean turned back to Pattingale. "This thing's going to come for you, I'm hoping tonight. When it does, me and Sam are gonna take care of it."

"You…" Pattingale nodded, then moved to a chair and sat slowly. "Can I ask you a question?" he managed lightly.

"Shoot," Dean sniffed, pulling off his jacket and throwing it on the table by Sam's laptop. He pushed through it to find the three long knives he had brought in from the car.

"Uh… Are you two… Well, are you two John Winchester's boys?"

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance.

"Yeah," Sam admitted slowly, with a lot of trepidation.

"Oh! Thank God!" Pattingale heaved, leaning over and putting his face in his hands. Dean just blinked at Sam, almost amused, given his state of mind.

"Is that good?" Sam inquired.

"Oh! Is it!" he moaned. "Oh my God, I thought I was gonna die. I thought I was gonna get hanged like those others," he breathed, scrubbing at his face. He peeked out from between his fingers. "But if you two are Winchesters, I might be alright."

"Why do you say that?" Sam grinned, still mystified.

"Cos I've heard of you, man!" Pattingale smiled. "Everyone in the business has heard of you! You go anywhere, kill anything, _do_ anything to get the job done." He sat back in the chair abruptly, looking at the ceiling. "Oh my God… I'm so relieved."

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. But Dean was inspecting the knives slowly, plucking a thumb against the blade of the longest one in thought.

"Yeah well. It ain't here yet. We haven't killed it yet," he breathed.

"You think you can do this?" Pattingale asked weakly.

Sam opened his mouth, but then cast a look at Dean. He kept his eyes on the blade, and his thumb testing the sharpness. Pattingale noticed the way his head tilted slightly as he scrutinised the serrated edge.

"Oh trust me," Dean said softly, with a quiet firmness that did more than any loud voice to chill Pattingale's soul, "there ain't nothing I want more."

.

* * *

.

They sat in the darkness, watching the lights from the cars that passed. The beams of light started on the right hand wall and slowly swept across the occupants, casting ominous black shapes on the furniture around them.

"What I don't get is, why is this thing acting like a human?" Pattingale said quietly. "I mean… it's not like it's jumping people and tearing them into small pieces. Why hang them?"

"Good question," Sam mused. "This thing is built for munching through tissue. Why's it bothering to hang people?"

"Why's it even here at all?" Dean grumped. "Why didn't they get it right the first time?"

The other two fell silent. Cars passed, lights moved, three men watched the front door through the open living room door.

"How do you know you have to carve it up into small pieces?" Pattingale ventured quietly. Sam raised his head, similarly intrigued. "How do you know it'll kill it?"

"Dicks beat the crap out of people cos they're afraid," Dean muttered, sounding as if his mind were on other things.

"And?" Pattingale prompted.

"And these things carve people up cos it's their own worst nightmare." He paused, thinking, it seemed. "Go with what you know, and all that."

"I see."

Time ticked away and Sam shifted in his armchair, his hand tight on the knife handle on the arm.

"Maybe Matthew had some prior memory about hangings," Pattingale offered. Sam looked at him, his mind whirling.

"Maybe he's like… Maybe he regenerated all his body parts. But maybe he needed a human host cos there was something he couldn't do himself," he offered quietly.

Dean simply grunted.

Pattingale nodded. "I heard them wendigo things - sometimes they jump to a new host. Get amalgamated. Then they're inseparable."

"Might explain why it's acting all human at times," Sam mused. "They could be totally enmeshed by now."

"So… you seen one of these before?" Pattingale havered. "Cos… if I'd been hunting one of these, I think I definitely would have--"

"Pattingale, shut up," Dean sighed.

Silence again descended, but Sam eyed his brother edgily. He may have been slumped into the armchair, one elbow on the rest, propping his chin up. He may have had his right foot turned on its side, his left boot using the edge of the sole as a stand. And his eyes may have been half closed in the dim light. But Sam could feel the tension and eagerness wafting across the room. He could feel his need to find the creature so similar to his own feared torturer and get one - or all - of his knives into it.

_I don't blame him_, he admitted to himself, his own eyes darting back to the thin net curtains over the front window.

Something crunched outside on the path. Pattingale jumped slightly, staring at the door. The Winchesters didn't move. There was a very tiny sound of a lock clicking, and they heard the front door swing open with a creak.

Sam got to his feet slowly, motioning Pattingale behind him. Dean simply sat, unmoving, in the chair nearest the door.

There was a creak from the hall, the sound of shoes shuffling down the wooden floorboards.

A shadow appeared round the door frame steadily. One eye blinked, bright and round, at the room and the three of them.

Dean's hand dropped from his chin and he stretched it out, clicking on the large table lamp beside him.

"Evening," he called pleasantly.

The shadow became a head. A human head. With dark red, flaming eyes.

"Why don't you just come in. It'll be easier on everyone," Dean said genially.

Sam fingered the handle on his knife at his side as he put an arm out and kept Pattingale behind him. He walked them backwards as the head slid round the door frame.

A man. Just a man, albeit with raging eyes of Hellfire, stepped into the room. He stood, his hands clasped in front of him, looking at them all with what appeared to be ultimate derision.

"That's better. Now, you the Avon lady, or is there something you want?" Dean asked politely.

Sam had heard the tone a thousand times, knew it belied anger about to erupt. He suddenly felt a chill go down his spine, remembering exactly what his older brother was capable of when push came to shove.

_I just hope it doesn't go off anywhere near me_, he realised before he could help himself. And there it was; the unspoken fear he'd avoided since his brother had admitted the things he had done when trapped in The Pit.

The man's eyes were churning, focusing on Pattingale and nothing else. "I want him," he hissed.

Sam dragged himself back to the moment. "Matthew. It is Matthew, right?"

"I have no name," he growled. "Give him to me."

"Now why would we do that?" Dean said brightly, getting to his feet and stepping forward. It brought him within six feet of the man. He turned to face the elder Winchester, then stepped back quickly.

"You," he managed, taking another step back.

"Something wrong?" Dean asked, his face a picture of guilelessness.

"You," he seethed, edging away as he slewed to his right, to be closer to the others.

"Whut?" Dean asked with burning innocence, raising his hands to show they were empty.

"You get away from me," he hissed.

Sam moved himself and Pattingale back, noticing they were slowly heading into the corner of the room. He looked around, finding the other exit to their left. But they would have to slide closer to the Hellish being to get to it. He tossed a look at his brother, clearing his throat.

Dean didn't acknowledge it except to take a step to his left, turning his back to the pair of men. The being inched back to his own left, back toward the door to the hall.

"Aw, what's the matter?" Dean cooed, taking another step round, forcing the monster back slightly. "I thought you liked raking humans into kebabs?"

"You!" the thing hissed. "You shouldn't be--"

"Don't tell me, I smell," he nodded cheerfully. "I know. Damnedest thing, man. There I was, thinking, where have I smelt that awful, barbecued dog hair kinda nasty reek before, and then there you were. And _then_ I thought, well, if he stinks like that cos he just _worked_ there, think what _I_ must smell like!"

The being watched his knowing, apparently camaradic grin with large, frightened eyes. "How did you get out?" he whispered.

"How did _you_ get out?" Dean countered nicely. He put his hands down, letting them drop in the vague vicinity of his pockets.

"I was sent out. I was sent out to start thinning your hunter numbers," he admitted. "Now you."

"I was kinda air-lifted free by the other side," Dean grinned. "Cheating, I know." He heard Sam shuffling across the carpet behind him, Pattingale presumably following. "You been away from home a long time, dude. A lot's changed."

"So you say. The years I've spent here have meant nothing. Time here is so short."

"You know, you're absolutely right," Dean agreed cheerfully. He lifted his hand slowly and put it inside his jacket. He drew it out steadily, revealing a long, shiny silver knife. "You couldn't be more right." He lifted the knife meaningfully, turning it slightly to make sure the dim lamplight shone off the keen edges. "Now, how are we going to do this? You gonna stand still? Or do I give you a running start?"

The being stared at Dean with dawning realisation. "You've done this--"

"Before? Yeah," he admitted uncomfortably. "And I don't mind telling you, it was the wrongest, most evil thing I coulda done." Then he smiled brightly. "But I been thinking about this whole '_what's good and what's evil_' thing, and do you know what I came up with? Everything's right, when you're on the right side. So yeah, I done this before, and yeah, it was evil. Why? Cos it was to the wrong victim, for the wrong reasons." He paused, leaning forward slightly to make sure the creature saw his eyes, bright with intention and eagerness. "Now _you're_ here, it makes it alright. Hell, I have an excuse. No wait - an _obligation_," he grinned evilly.

The being's orbs flushed darker red and he drew himself up. "So you've been down there, and you've survived. So you're here with your little pocket knife to try and intimidate me," he growled. "But you're still just a _human_," he spat with contempt.

"Ye-eah, about that," Dean said thoughtfully. "Why do you think demons hate us in the first place? Cos they used to be us. Why do you think they resent that fact? Hmm?" he pressed, eyeing the being with less attention and more thought to the weak points throughout its body. "Cos even when the unthinkable happens and humans are ripped up, torn to shreds, tortured over and over, yadda yadda yadda, something still survives. Something _always_ survives. Maybe it becomes a demon. But demons can be killed. They can be burnt. _That's_ what they hate - the idea that humans are survivors, in whatever form, and they have _that fact_ to thank for being around at all. Ain't _that_ a bitch?"

"You're so pleased to be human," he snarled, keeping his frame tall. "But how human are _you_ any more, when you stink of the tools they used on you, the blood and foetid flesh they drew from you as they laughed and delighted in the screams you made?"

Sam's eyes darted to his brother quickly in fear.

Dean tilted his head as he smiled innocuously. "Well I still seem to be flesh and blood with a heart pumping away. Think that settles it."

"No matter what tainted blood flows through it?" he demanded, flicking his eyes at Sam and back.

Dean didn't even flinch. "No matter _what_ blood flows through it," he confirmed.

"So you're still flesh and bone. That makes it easier for me. Because before I rip your friend there limb from limb, I'll do you first."

"Now hold on there," Dean grinned maliciously, "I only do chicks."

The being roared something in anger. He leapt at Dean.

Sam simply grabbed Pattingale and hauled them back and through the door to the dining room. Pattingale got round the corner but stumbled and fell. Sam grasped at his shirt, yanking him up to his feet.

They stared at each other, eyes wide, as they heard noises. Growls, hissed insults, thumps, bumps, bangs.

Sam let go and ran back through the door.

The being controlling Matthew was being thrown across the room. He slammed back-first into the sofa. Sam looked over and saw Dean climbing to his feet. He had a good grip on the knife, but blood poured from the front of his t-shirt in a wide gash.

Sam's eyes centred on the cut, and the blood. Old memories surfaced. They took over his head, showing him the handiwork of Hellhounds as his brother writhed on the floor in death throes.

He shook his head and pushed himself into the room. _If there's one thing I'm gonna do, it's keep him alive._

But Dean was advancing on the being. He turned on him and they crashed together, Dean's knife lost to the carpet. They rolled around, struggling and spitting insults. Sam got closer and reached for the fallen knife.

Dean got his feet underneath him and propelled him off him. He turned on his front and squirmed for the knife. Sam knocked it closer and it slid across the carpet. Dean's hand closed on it.

Something pale slammed into Sam's head. He was thrown back across the room. He landed by the armchair, immediately trying to get to his feet. He heard a cry of pain from his brother and grabbed at the chair, finding his knees.

Dean was pinned down on his front. The being was crouched over him, his left hand pressing his head into the floor. One knee was weighing him down in the small of his back. The thing that looked like Matthew raised his right hand. Sam could only watch as huge claws sprang from his fingers in long red needles. He slammed them down into Dean's back, laughing.

Dean roared in pain. His right hand whipped back and there was a silvery flash.

Sam was already on his feet and moving at speed as the creature's arm was sliced clean through. Dean continued to turn as his arm arced round. The creature screamed and stared at his missing wrist. Dean's boot came up sideways and rammed into his chest.

He fell to his back. Sam paused but Dean flipped the knife round in his hand and threw himself at the being. This time he was on top, his knee pinning him to the carpet. He grasped the flailing head and drew his knife hand back.

"Stop! It's me! It's Matthew!" came a squeal.

"No you ain't," Dean breathed. He raised his knife hand higher.

The being's piteous look turned angry. "You think this will cure everything you feel?" he snarled desperately. "Is _that_ what you really want?"

"Shut up," Dean growled. But he hesitated in bringing the knife down.

The being struggled again at his grip, watching him with contempt in his eyes. "It won't change anything! It won't make you feel any less guilt!" he spat. "You think you can just get whatever you want!" He pulled his head free of the Winchester's grip, whipping it from side to side. "But you can't! This isn't going to get you what you want - you _can't_ always get what you want!"

"But if you try sometimes," Dean spat, reaching for his head again. He took a firm hold of his hair, yanking him to stay still. "--You get what you need."

He slammed the blade down into the side of his throat.

.

* * *

.

_**Grateful thanks to the Rolling Stones.**_

_**And I do love me some Evil!Dean.**_

.


	10. The 'If You Don't Like Gore, Look Away N

**TEN**

**The 'If You Don't Like Gore, Look Away Now' Part**

.

* * *

.

The knife tore through the tissue easily and blood started to spill out. Dean kept him pinned down as the being bucked and protested. He waited, and slowly but surely, the strength ebbed.

Finally the creature that looked like Matthew ceased to struggle and lay still.

Dean pulled the knife free and sat back, wiping his forehead with his jacket sleeve, getting some breath back. Then he leaned forward again and hacked at the neck with purpose.

"Is that it?" Sam guessed, approaching and falling to his knees next to them. He watched the blood creep outwards, seeping into the carpet easily. He watched Dean's knife, cutting at the neck methodically. "What are you doing?"

Dean sniffed and finished, then sat back. He looked at Sam with a warning in his eyes. "We got to get the head buried in church grounds, Sam. I ain't carrying all of him, know what I mean?"

"Fair enough," Sam sighed. Dean leaned down and grasped the now loose head. He twisted and yanked. There was a sickening crack as bones broke.

"Gaah," Dean protested, lifting the head free of the bloody torso. "Why do I always have to do this? Think I'd rather have the bi-polar teddy bear than a guy whose head I have to slice off."

"I'm with you there," Sam said, getting to his feet.

Pattingale poked his head through the door. "You done?" he managed. Then he swallowed. "Is that… is that the head?"

"Well if it ain't, he's lived his life ass-about-face," Dean sniffed. He got to his feet, bringing the dripping head with him. "Sam? A bag?" he prompted.

"Yeah," he said quickly, heading to the dining room door.

Dean hissed suddenly and dropped the head. Sam looked back. "What?"

"It burned!" Dean gasped, looking at his hands. "That's friggin' hot!"

Sam palmed his knife and went to Dean, grabbing his arm. He pulled him back with worried haste and they stared.

The head was lying on the carpet, immobile. But a thick, shiny red puddle of pus-like ooze was sliding out of the severed neck.

"Ugghh," Dean coughed suddenly, pressing the back of his blood-soaked hand to his mouth quickly to stop his gag reflex from following through. "That's the worst smell above _or_ below."

"Can't smell anything," Sam admitted, unable to look away from the head and the burgundy pus sliding out of it. The ooze spread out a few feet, more and more of it appearing.

"I'm never eatin' a jelly doughnut again," Dean managed. Sam just swallowed and they began to step back slowly.

Pattingale looked up at them. "Uh, guys?" he called.

"Pattingale - get in the study," Sam said quickly. "The basement. Lock it."

"Don't have to tell me twice," he gabbled, and promptly disappeared from the doorway.

The red goop was drawing together, solidifying, as the boys watched with wary expectation. Dean looked at the knife in his hand and gripped it more tightly. Then he thought for a moment. He pulled at his jacket, now spliced and rent in several places. He slid it off, wrapping it round his left arm slowly.

"You hurt?" Sam noticed.

"Not yet." Dean sniffed and then put the back of his knife hand to his younger brother's arm. Sam looked at him. "Just… Just be careful," he urged.

"Yeah," Sam allowed.

"I'm not kidding about the iPod, Sam."

"Dean, shut up," Sam sighed, watching the red pus build up and form limbs, bones, shiny red wings. "Just like you said," he managed, watching the creature form much like Dean's earlier sketch.

"I hate it when I'm right," Dean breathed, but Sam heard an edge to his voice he couldn't define.

The creature turned a spiky head, bristling with teeth and tiny, sharp horns. Wings shot out and flapped, raising them to stretch up, as if testing its old form. It ran a good five feet tall, but then the tail swung round and Sam realised another three feet of flesh and spines was about to make their lives much more difficult.

Dean stared. His eyes were wide but angry, his nostrils flared as he controlled his breathing with ruthless efficiency.

"Well?" he called at the creature. "You want a starting whistle? Ok, how's this: _your mother was a human!_" he spat.

The creature screeched and threw itself at him. Sam felt a push and was on his side on the carpet. There was an awful howling, thrashing scream. He felt the sweep of wind and heard grunting and struggling. He got to his hands and knees. He grasped his fallen knife and scrabbled backwards to get a clear picture of the situation.

The flapping, snarling creature was trying to wrap its limbs and tail around his older brother. Dean was pushed backwards into the wall. The head snapped its many rows of teeth into his face. Some of them caught skin. Dean didn't appear to notice. His hand was buried in its throat. The attached elbow was keeping the neck from him. His left hand was obscured.

There was a piercing scream and the creature twirled away suddenly. It swept its wings behind it, bringing its only two top limbs up and pushing desperately at Dean. It escaped backwards, but a stream of dark red gloop squirted over the carpet as it did so.

Sam didn't hesitate. He ignored the fact that Dean was sliding down the wall slowly in pain. He grabbed at the wing nearest him. He slammed the knife round and into the membrane.

It screamed in agony, whipping round quickly. A limb smacked into his face. Sam kept his balance. He felt immeasurable pain in his shoulder. He turned on it instinctively, slashing with the blade still in his hand. The pain eased as the creature's mouth was wrenched from him. He gasped as he came face to face with the rows of teeth. All of them opened up toward him.

Suddenly it was yanked back. It growled and snarled, trying to wrench round to face its attacker. Its wings bobbed down. Sam saw over the top. Dean was raising his knife high. He sank it deep into the spine of the creature. Red ooze spurted. Some spattered over his hand and face. He growled something and twisted the knife sharply.

The creature bucked and scrabbled at thin air. It whipped from side to side in desperation. Dean pulled his right hand free and another knife came with it. He flipped it round and hammered it down into the back of the neck. Another screech and the wings flipped up.

They caught him in the face. He took the blow and yanked both eight-inch knives free. He jerked back. His boot went into the torso between the wings. It was thrown forward. It crashed into the carpet in a painful heap. It hissed and squealed in agony, pushing itself onto its back.

Sam took a step toward it, seeing his chance to finish it. Dean shoved his elbow into his brother's chest, halting him harshly. Sam stumbled back and watched as Dean didn't even break stride. His left boot went into the neck. He dropped and his right knee landed in what passed for a gut.

And both knives went into the huge, gaping maw.

They sank in with a squish and squelch that echoed round the room. Red pus erupted over Dean and the creature as they struggled. It fought to get free of the carpet. The tail thrashed, the wings beat desperately. Dean leant his weight on one knife. It sank through with a grating sound, pinning the creature to the floor through its head. Dean yanked the other blade free.

Sam took a step backwards in trepidation. The back of his knee caught something and he went down, landing hard on his backside. He stared, unable to look away.

The creature was screeching and spitting. Its wings pummelled at Dean's head with its remaining strength. Dean plunged the knife into the creature's throat three times in vicious succession. The wings hit out at him. Interrupted, he grabbed at a wing beating at his head. He sliced through the base joint and let it go. It fell to the carpet, immobile. He grasped at the other one, wrenching and grunting with effort. His knife slid through the leathery, shiny surface eagerly and it came free.

The weak limbs came up and grabbed at him, needle-sharp claws digging through his shirt in desperation as it writhed and screamed in agony.

"_Feel that!_" Dean roared at the mouth around the knife staking it to the floor. "_How many souls you done this to, you son of a bitch!_"

He raised the other knife and slammed it down into the chest. His bloodied hand twisted it with a loud crack. He pulled it free instantly. He dropped the knife and grabbed at the edges of the breastbone with his bare hands. He twisted and wrenched. Bones gave and snapped.

Sam edged further back.

Dean pushed a hand in the gap, grabbing and watching the creature twist and squeal in pain. "_Hurts, don't it!_" he raged, pulling.

The creature bucked and struggled desperately. Dean found the small round organ and squeezed with all his strength. Red goop and entrails sloshed and burst up through the gap and over Dean's arm but he didn't let go. His breath came in short, angry pants as he put all his weight into pressing it to the floor.

"Dean," Sam muttered, his eyes large and round.

His brother let go of the heart. He withdrew his hand quickly. He snatched up the knife again, slamming it into the neck with a grunt of satisfaction. He yanked it free ready for another strike. He didn't even notice the blade drip with red pus and small flecks of tissue.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, his voice raw.

Dean hesitated, blinking at the writhing Hellspawn under him. He looked at Sam suddenly.

"Enough!" Sam ordered.

Dean stared at him, as if not sure of the word or how it connected to anything at that moment. He looked back down at the creature urgently. He seemed surprised it was there. His head turned back to Sam.

"Whut am I--?" he whispered in horror.

He shivered and the knife tumbled from his fingers.

Sam closed his mouth and grabbed up his blade. He raced over on hands and knees. He took a good hold of the handle. He jabbed it down and raked it across the bloody, torn up neck with all his strength.

The head simply came free. It rolled away, coming to a graceful stop a few feet across the carpet.

Sam, breathing hard, swallowed and sat back. He looked at Dean fearfully.

His older brother pushed himself back from the fluttering, dying body. He landed on his backside with a painful thump, horrified eyes just staring. He put his hands to the carpet behind him slowly and moved away from the sagging corpse. He found the armchair in his back and sank back against it, getting his breath back. He lifted his left arm and rested his elbow on the cushion behind him to keep himself upright. The other hand, still dripping with red goo, pus and tiny bits of entrails, was lying on his jeans, forgotten. He had scratches and nicks all over his skin, blood still leaking from his t-shirt and eyes that suddenly held absolutely nothing.

"Dean," his brother grunted.

But Dean didn't stir. He was staring at the severed head. Just staring, a far away look on his face.

Sam cleared his throat and got to his hands and knees. He shuffled over and sat next to him. He nudged his shoulder with his.

"Dude."

"Yeah," Dean said smartly, turning his head slightly, but his gaze only made it as far as Sam's outstretched legs.

"Think he's dead, dude."

"Yeah," he allowed. He looked down at his hands, covered in blood and ooze. "Sam?" he withered hopefully.

Sam was struck by the quiet, unsure voice. He had heard it before, but not in at least fifteen years.

"Yeah?"

"If I ever stick my hand some place it's not supposed to go again, can you swing for me?" Dean asked nervously.

Sam smiled, relieved, nudging his shoulder again with his own. "Deal. But… Dean?"

"Whut?"

"If you ever go Dark Side like that again, I might have to kill you."

Dean looked at him. Then, to Sam's amazement, he started to laugh. It was infectious, and Sam started too.

"We've gotta get - get this head--" Dean attempted to get the sentence out, but laughter was making his words incomprehensible.

"Church?" Sam gasped through his own laughter.

"Church!" Dean hooted.

Sam just shook his head, laughing more loudly. And if he acknowledged that Dean was leaning against his shoulder a little heavier than before, he didn't mention it.

.

* * *

.

Pattingale sat in the kitchen, staring at his coffee. It wasn't until one of the complete strangers who had saved his life limped lightly through the door that he looked up.

"Hey," Dean managed.

Pattingale noticed the Winchester's half hour in the bathroom had been well-spent; he had at least washed off the gallons of blood and unmentionable chunks of gore, and changed his ventilated shirt and t-shirt for a single grey t-shirt.

"Yeah," Pattingale muttered gratefully.

He watched Dean hobble past him with the first aid box still in his hand, landing himself heavily in a kitchen chair. He noticed raised squares of sterile pads, evidence of Dean's hard work, dotted around under the t-shirt.

"You gonna be alright?" he ventured slowly.

Dean looked up at him, as if surprised he'd spoken. Pattingale waved a finger in the general direction of Dean's front, gesturing to the tiny specks of blood that had already seeped through areas of triage and had started attacking the cotton from within.

"Yeah," Dean said defensively. "I've had worse off ma dad."

Pattingale just nodded. He got up, going to the coffee machine. He picked up a fresh mug and filled it with hot, black liquid gold. He brought it over to the table and sat again, setting it in front of Dean.

"Appreciated," Dean grunted, opening the first aid box and rummaging through for a selection of things, putting them on the wooden surface. He picked up the mug and took a long, grateful sip.

He set it back down and Pattingale's shaken eyes watched the hunter's hands sort through the items on the table. When Dean pulled out a curved needle and pulled the large rip open more in the front of his filthy jeans, poking at the chewed cut in his thigh to get an idea of how to tackle it best, Pattingale excused himself and got up. He made for the front lawn and morning sunshine.

He was still clutching his coffee cup and trying to come to terms with everything he'd seen when he heard a throaty vehicular rumble. It began to calm him on some instinctive level, but it stopped short. There was a squeak and a slam, and then Sam appeared at the end of his garden path.

"Hey Pattingale," he said cheerfully, carrying a rolled up, bloody bag in his hand and a duffle over his shoulder.

"Hey Sam," he replied automatically. Sam paused, assessing his face.

"You ok?"

"Well let me see," he mused. "I'm not dead. But you two fought with some friggin' awful demonic pit-pet thing in my front room. Then you chopped the head off. You took it away to bury it in a church graveyard without permission, while your brother set fire to all the other body parts in my backyard." He paused, sighing uncomfortably.

Sam patted his shoulder as he passed him. "Focus on the 'not dead' bit," he advised happily, striding through the morning sunshine and into the house. He went through to the kitchen, hearing the hissing and grumbling before he even made the doorframe.

"Son of a--" Dean hissed, pulling the needle through his leg and pulling all the stitches together. He 'ouch'ed and hissed the cut together, oblivious of his audience that consisted of one amused younger brother. He finished off and snipped at the thick cord, turning and dropping everything to the kitchen table next to him. He picked up a square of sticking plaster still in its sterile dressing.

Sam pushed himself off the doorframe and walked in. "Having fun?" he smiled, letting himself fall gratefully into Pattingale's recently vacated chair.

"Oh yeah, laugh a minute," he growled, opening the pad and placing it over the stitched area with a grunt of discomfort. "You ok?"

"Just a gnawed-on shoulder I've already patched. Not too bad. That everything? Anything you can't reach?"

"My back," Dean admitted. "Don't feel sticky though. Think it can wait."

"No, don't think it can," Sam said darkly. "Give me that," he said irritably, taking another sterile pad from the table. "Turn around."

"Yes Dad," he grumped.

Sam bit his lip against his amused reply, waiting for Dean to turn. But instead he stood up, a little wobbly from stolen prescription painkillers, and sat round in the chair backwards.

Sam lifted his t-shirt at the back and tutted. "Dude, it's like… it's like a farmer's field back here."

"That will be the claws," he said uncomfortably.

Sam looked at the back of his brother's head, but he simply crossed his arms on the backrest of the chair and leaned his chin on them comfortably. Sam put down the dressing and instead reached for the swabbing alcohol and towel his brother had obviously used on his leg. He folded it to find a patch that wasn't already red. He unscrewed the bottle and pressed the towel to it, upending the bottle to transfer some of the contents to the material.

"This is going to sting," he said edgily.

"I guessed, but thanks."

Sam lifted the t-shirt, pressing the towel to the many tiny cuts. He swept it over the larger, deeper gash in the skin. The muscles in Dean's back tightened repeatedly but he said nothing.

"So," Sam said, dabbing a dry bit of towel against it before throwing it on the table. "Feel better now?"

"For having alcohol worked into every single scratch? Not really, no."

"No, I meant… You got one," he said helpfully, picking up the sterile pad and opening it. He kept his fingers off it, using the paper edge to push it against the broken, painful pattern of spike-holes in his brother's lower back.

"Got one whut? Staph infection?"

"Hellspawn thing. You cut it up pretty good, dude."

"I saw."

He was silent while Sam attached tape and secured the pad carefully.

"Funny," Dean mused quietly, as Sam put the tape back on the table.

"What is?" he asked gently, but Dean didn't turn around.

"Just… thought I'd feel… I dunno… Just… some kind of satisfaction, y'know? Or… relief. Or just… something _good_ for a change."

Sam dragged his eyes to the table slowly. He bit his lip for a moment, working up courage. He found it: "How do you feel now?"

"Like… Well, job done, we can go," he shrugged, apparently to himself. "And hungry."

"Well that's two good things," Sam said firmly. Dean got up slowly, swinging his leg over the chair to sit round the way the chair was designed for.

"How's that?"

"Well, a job well done - that's a good feeling, right?" he said. "And being hungry? That means you're alive. That's a good thing too, surely?"

"Y'know? It is. And don't call me Shirley," Dean smiled. Sam just shook his head.

"You watch way too many Zucker brothers films, man."

"Nope. You don't want _enough_," he countered easily. "Where's Pattingale?"

"Commiserating in his coffee," he said with a wide smile. "He's counting himself lucky he's still alive. At least, that's what I told him to do."

"Super. Well I certainly wouldn't mind putting this place in ma rear view mirror," he nodded.

"I'm with you there. What about Bosun, though?"

"I was wondering if he'd show up again - y'know, like to say goodbye? Shouldn't we be telling him to fling himself into the Great Beyond?" Dean asked innocently.

Sam sighed, looking at the table. "I don't know if he will make it back. Last time I saw him he was pretty ectoplasm'd out. I don't know if he's even still around."

"Bummer," Dean mused. "Right then. Daylight's a-wasting, and we're in Missouri. Where do we go next, Sammy?"

"Anywhere with a bar," Sam sighed.

"Atta boy! And girls, don't forget the girls," he chuckled, reaching for his torn-up jacket from the table.

.

* * *

.

Sam pushed open the door slowly, looking in the motel room and almost fearing what he might see.

"Looks like Normal, Illinois might actually be ok," he said to himself. He turned in the doorway and looked back at his brother, hefting his duffle onto his shoulder from the boot of the car. "I could get that!" he called helpfully.

"You could get a bitch-slap for trying to be Mom," Dean said pleasantly.

Sam's will to be offended at his innocent offer of help was summarily whacked over the head with a frying pan. The large, round smiting device was dropped to the ground as his sense of relief wiped its hands together, well pleased it had stopped him from getting cranky. It, at least, recognised that Dean had been in one of his happier, easier-going moods all afternoon, despite driving for nearly seven hours with a throbbing back and several hundred small gashes, nicks and cuts that positively buzzed with pain every time he moved. It also recognised that Sam should take his own advice and be grateful they were still both alive.

Sam's tolerance of Dean's good humour lasted until his older brother found out the shower had an extra hard massage setting. Then his good nature broke down under the heavy load.

"Then _use_ the goddamned thing and stop driving me nuts!" he shouted at the bathroom door.

The door opened and Dean's head poked out. "Friggin' typical," he tutted, watching Sam pick up the TV remote. "Got an awesome shower and I can't even use it."

Sam looked at him with much more restraint than he had expected. "Make a decision, Dean. Use it and undo all that wonderful patching up you did this morning, or just be a man and have a catlick. Whatever you do, leave me to check the news."

"Fine," Dean chirped happily, disappearing back behind the door. It clicked shut firmly and Sam let out a long sigh.

He shook his head, walked back to his bed, and sat slowly, making himself relax. He flicked on the TV and scanned through a few stations before he found a familiar face. He turned it up quickly.

"Well, o 'course I couldn't say how the FBI are doing, but my hopes are with the NSA boys. I'm thinkin' if anyone woulda got something, it woulda been them."

The camera panned back to a female reporter, looking slightly annoyed.

"And that's all the news we have on the hunt for John Winchester. Special Agents Friday and Streebeck of the FBI are refusing to talk to us right now, and we've been unable to trace the NSA agents that the local sheriff here is so keen to talk to. However, we will keep you posted," she said stiffly.

"Maybe I should drop you a note, sheriff, just so you know we _did_ wrap it up," Sam smiled to himself.

The news report cut back to the studio and a very bored looking young man started walking around, waving his hand at a weather map. Sam muted the set and smiled to himself.

"Keep looking, agents," he breathed, as he heard a familiar husky tune start up from the bathroom. "Fifty bucks says you don't find anything, and when there are no more hangings in the next week, you'll get recalled to Washington to waste your time on another X-File that never was."

Dean's singing stopped and the bathroom door flew open suddenly. He emerged, dry but in a towel that suggested his filthy jeans had been binned, and a nervous look that belied a state of semi-panic. He grabbed up his duffle, looking for clean clothes.

"What?" Sam asked, bemused. "You're acting like Dad's coming to check we understand the importance of laundry."

"It's worse than that," Dean said seriously, giving up his careful rummage through his duffle and simply upending it. "We should be celebratin', and we're all covered in hospital patches."

"Celebrating?" Sam prompted. "Why?"

"Cos we killed a really evil son of a bitch today, I finally got some payback, and we even saved an ex-hunter from the noose. If that's not worth celebrating, I don't know what is," he reasoned.

Sam folded his arms. "_Now_ you're happy you killed it? Now? At--" He paused to check his watch: "--at ten forty at night?"

"Absolutely!" Dean cried, as if it should be obvious. "Took all day to sink in, but something tells me I'm sleepin' easier from now on."

"Really," Sam grinned, turning away to his bed.

"Yeah, really," Dean said pointedly. "We killed it, Sam. _We_ killed it. Not me, _we_."

Sam let his grin fall into an expression of apprehension as he turned back to look at his older brother.

"No weirdo psychic stuff, no demons, no angels getting in the way - _we_ did it. You and me," Dean blurted.

"And?" Sam asked quietly, his gaze on Dean's duffle. Dean lifted his chin, but he waited till Sam was looking at him.

"And that's how it should be, that's all," he said, quietly defensive. They looked at each other for a long moment. "Right?" Dean asked, unsure.

Sam fought with himself for what felt like an eternity. _He's worried. He thinks we're not the team we were._

"Right," he said firmly. "We should be hunting things, saving people, staying away from angels--"

"--and demons--"

"--And demons," Sam allowed with a wry smile.

Dean noticed Sam just watching him, smiling, and his own face turned a little pensive. "Whut?" he asked carefully.

"Well… Yeah. You and me versus the world. That's how it's always been, right?"

"Right," Dean said, his puzzled smile a little too wide.

"What?" Sam grinned.

"Don't you dare try and hug me. I am in no condition to fend you off right now," Dean said off-hand. He turned in his towel to find clothes, the jigsaw of bright white patches all over him clear enough for all the world to see.

"My _God_, Dean!" came a voice from literally nowhere. But Dean's head came up and he recognised the shock and older timbre.

"I've told you," he said with a smile, turning to look round the room, "we're friends, you can just call me 'Dean'."

Bosun flickered in and out, barely visible, behind Sam. Dean nodded to him and his younger brother turned quickly to see him.

"My time's nearly up, boys. Just wanted to say… I know. I heard what happened earlier today."

"You heard? What, you get film at eleven for spirits, now?" Dean smirked.

"Dean, shut up for one second, this is important," Bosun chided, making Sam smile. "I wanted to say… I _had_ to say… Thanks. He wasn't Matthew any more. And you boys took care of the thing using him like that. And I'm grateful. I don't know where I'm going, and I don't know who's going to be there, but… well, John's gonna hear all about this gig, that's for damned sure," he chuckled.

"We were just in the right place at the right time," Sam shrugged.

"Don't lie to me, boy," Bosun grinned. "I know you worked hard to dig up all that info, and I know you two went through a lot to get it done," he added, putting a hand out and indicating Dean's many patches and plasters. "All I'm saying is, you know it's appreciated, right?"

"Yeah, we know," Dean said.

Bosun looked at him, then shook his head sadly. "Y'know… I kinda miss _little_ Dean. Just as cocky, but I could've ordered him around if I'd had to."

"If it means anything," Dean ventured slowly, "I kinda miss those days too. Sam was too young to steal my food or comics, Dad was still Dad, and you came round to talk about trucks." He paused, and Sam looked at him, bemused. "Yeah. Kinda miss those days. Before it all went FUBAR," he added with a smile, looking at Sam pointedly.

"Yeah. Anyways, it's been good to see you." He lifted his hands, wiggling them to indicate the transparency. "Looks like I'm just about done. I'm gonna wink out for good any second. You two boys take care, you hear?"

"Yes boss man," Dean smiled, and Bosun looked at Sam.

"And you," he said, looking at Sam. "I know what you do. When he was a kid, all Dean ever did was look out for you. Now I hear you do your fair share too. It's appreciated by those who care," he said cryptically.

Sam's eyed widened. "Have you seen Dad?" he blurted.

"Gotta go," Bosun shrugged. "See you on the other side, boys."

He faded and then suddenly, there was nothing there.

The brothers stared at the empty space for a long minute, neither one moving. Eventually Sam closed his mouth, putting his hands on his hips and tutting to himself.

"He had to go sometime," Dean said quietly.

Sam snorted without mirth, turning to his bed. "Yeah, he did. But he coulda said if he'd seen Dad."

Dean picked up a t-shirt from the jumble that had escaped his duffle. "Would it have made a difference if he had?"

Sam watched him sniff the t-shirt before apparently pronouncing it clean enough. He continued sorting through and snagged some black shorts.

"Don't suppose it would," Sam admitted.

"Right then. Get yourself cleaned up and ready to party hearty, Marty," Dean said grandly, looking up from his bed. "Cos you and me are gonna get down to the nearest bar and find ourselves the biggest drinks and the girls with the biggest--"

"Dean."

"--personalities," he finished. Sam started to laugh, and Dean turned to find some clean jeans. He hissed a little as he straightened. "You think there'd be an off-duty nurse in there somewhere?" he mused to himself.

"Maybe," Sam allowed, going to the towel rail to find a clean one. He was planning the hottest shower in the world, and the extra hard massage setting suddenly sounded very inviting.

"I could so do a nurse right now," Dean muttered, then stopped abruptly and thought about what he'd said, pouting in thought as his eyes flicked at the ceiling.

"Do _with_ a nurse," Sam corrected. "Freudian slip."

"Don't think nurses wear slips any more," Dean commented happily to himself. "Which is just perfectly fine with me," he added cheerfully. "Less to take off."

"Just - get dressed," Sam interrupted. "And let's not do the 'guess the shot' game," he added as he closed the bathroom door.

"Dude! I was five for five last time!" Dean protested. He heard Sam mutter something from beyond the door and shrugged to himself - stopping hastily when it pinched and hurt several small abrasions.

The shower started hissing, Dean started humming to himself, the world turned. As it crept up to eleven o'clock, the brothers were ready to take on the small town of Normal, Illinois.

Normal, Illinois, found this slightly worrying. But she forestalled any panic at such an early hour. After all, the night was young, and so were the Winchesters. They deserved a little celebratory drink. Especially since they were so hard-working.

And besides, she reasoned, what was the worst that could happen?

**FIN**

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_Thanks for leaving your reviews so far, everyone! Your comments are convincing me not to abandon my newest work-in-progress. I've been thinking about giving up writing recently, but then I get such kind comments here. It's beginning to change my mind._

**_Thanks everyone!_**

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